as steam barreled from a locomotive
like that Whitman placed so highly.
when man and machine are one
they mold together, making new from sparks
and currents, wires become imbecile cords
while buttons are the only sense of touch.
take a hit of ether because
it's a long way down to the metal tracks:
cylindrical barrels barreling toward your body
with nothing on its regard—nothing to keep it
from trampling you in a stampeded
of smoke, gnashing steel like giant bones
fed on coal. trees tremble, stones fear breaking
when men and machine become one,
become murders.
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