poem by a broken machine

I have little to say
these days;
I feel
just one more
over-grown understudy...

in this vast and tangled
intercontinental comedy
of the absurd and untoward,
where neither God
nor angels,
nor devils
censor the most rotten, pestilential bits,
nor guide the procession
toward higher nor other directions,
till we grow green-gray and mottled
and torment stoically
in our high-tech adventure chambers

So, I know I don't
want to play
the role assigned me,
nor live theatric life at all.

Actually, I don't want
to live at all today,
not even in ornate coffeehouses
nor in sprawling, verdant gardens;
but maybe soon
the winds will change,
and something new will appear
to mind, heart, and ear