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ASIMO poem

Nov. 22, 2009
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tonight all the lights are gone

i unscrewed the bulbs

and put them in the corner

like dumb children

now every room glows like a church

by carpetgush and infomercial alone

this is the setting for a poem where you finally leave me

alone with all the stupid refrigerator smell

like a dumptruck filled with gobs of purple

slaughtered moon just sitting there

sometimes when the lights are gone

and i am writing exceptionally sad poetry

i receive a cache of truly epic feelings

and i write them down as they appear

i want to eat tree guts

i want to witness an explosion

i want to dance all night at a rave

and get my brain hopelessly lit

on many kinds of drugs

one for each letter of the alphabet

i want to dance at a rave and have a heart attack

and be brought back to life in a strange environment

that is eerily repressive toward the human spirit

i want to write a poem that walks like ASIMO

because there is no way to know

if such a poem will affect you for good or ill

you would not know for instance

if this robot has come to enslave you

if he has a switch of slaughtered moon in his brain

or if he will just walk and observe

affecting you somewhat tangentially

in the arbitrary world of the intellect

if you loved me would you write a poem

with this kind of stupid, forthright honesty ?

would you employ a cataclysmic metaphor

to describe your hopelessness and suicidal demeanor ?

you could write

i feel a tremendous burst of the forlorn

when ASIMO falls it is like my entire being

is a cruel, cruel sphincter absorbing the present tense

of all pain and alienation and it ferments

uselessly in my healing cavities

and we could spend hours writing letters in blood

hey let’s write letters in our blood

and dance totally naked

in the first episcopalean church

and give our healing cavities up to ASIMO

as an offering so he doesn’t enslave us

and if you loved me then you’d say

that the robot is not a robot at all

but really a collective sum

of many human thoughts

and that the human thoughts are lights

firing off so tiny in the brain

like a thousand flailing glow sticks

in completely impossible colors

and you know after tonight

each thought will fade

and you have to make new ones

you must make a dumptruck of new ones

more than anything else

this is the edict of the rave

even if the rave is a metaphor

or a for-real rave with all the drugs

and lights and comfort of human noise

it’s the same effect

you have to make more thoughts

you must burn like a church

you must return from a heart attack

willing to lead the human race

you must walk like ASIMO

all the time

otherwise it dies

James Schiller lives in Milwaukee and writes poems.  He would like to meet you and push you down and then pick you back up so later you can have an interesting story about how you became friends.


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