You can take that off line
But not off the grid
There’s no dropping out
You can’t drop a stitch
You have to be visible
Accessible, be heard
And when you speak be crisp
As crackly as a potato chip
Each word you say
Must snap its way
Into the consciousness
Of the apathetic
Instigate action
Inspire change
The change of each cog
To mesh with the magneto
That spins the grand combine
Which turns the great wheel
That moves the giant mower
To whack ripe opportunities
Into the high hopper
Which feeds the machine
The insatiable vacuum
That never loses suction
When vulnerable, succulent souls
Are so ripe for the taking

The grid
The long leash
The internet satellite signal
Lo-jack chip behind the ear
Just beneath the scalp
Setting alpha brain waves out of phase
To control the impulse
Weaken the will
Enable the “reach out
And jump through your ass”
Give up your life
Forsake family and friends
To satisfy a customer
With no face or feelings or purpose
Other than to ensure your every thought
Is consumed with anxiety
And concern over how to bring in
Another few delectable morsels
Of gross margin points
To fatten the bottom line
Of the machine

The queen machine
The god machine
The “our purpose serves the greater good”
Far beyond picayune personal proclivities
To procure a pusillanimous pittance
A pauper’s puny perfidy
Our goal is to make the magnanimous
Mother machine
Crank out cookie-cutter encryptions
Devoid of character
Motivated to mollify the moods
Of the machine

There is the mystery
The code un-cracked
That we would succumb
To such subjugation and slavery
Ever wired to the grid
Shamefully submitted to such stark disclosure
Of all that we hope and are
For fear that the mindless motions
Of the monster magneto
Somehow spins with greater speed
Than our simple insignificant aspirations
Or primal human needs

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© 2008 by Michael H. Clay. Used with permission.