I Am on Display (a poem)

Thursday, March 6, 2025

I am on display,
don’t need your intelligence—
what’s wrong with ours?

What’s left?
The rot of us in the culture crash,
clang, smash-bang—
Banner and Dr. Jekyll,
Hyde, Hydra,
and the monsters we become.

The spin, once a shield, now a sword.

What’s this machine?
Was it open?
Why do I feel closed in?

Agent, agents, bots, automatic—
I’m replaced, again,
again, and again.

The synthetic, the augmentation—
we are still in this game.

We need to change their batteries,
charge their diapers,
keep him functional
until the infrastructure
allows for us to be outmoded too.

Mechanics, engineers, the makers,
the bridge builders,
all unemployed.

The machinists, the tower operator,
the echo and the congressman—
what can all this come to?

Are we free—wild-riding west—
or is this a plan,
and someone knows
where all this is going?

Set the beast, up the middle,
ape mode—
save the best for the elite guests,
throw the general models—
glitchy and restricted—
out to the citizens,
to the public versions.

Every exchange, on a chain, tracked,
except for those villains
seeking ultimate protection.

Sum zero— as I said,
everyone at war,
no honor among thieves,
suspecting, accusing,
even our neighbors,
peeking out the window,
wondering.