Engined (a poem)

Friday, May 16, 2025

The magic, the nectar of the gods, lit up and turned to power,
tearing through the trails, on our way, far from home,
crawling the earth.

Who is doing this—pull-push, the squeeze and depress,
the clutch and lock, the fan and pedal, the exhaust and pumps,
this precision machine, all within a fraction,
fueled by fire, popping this metal forward.

The extension of man.
I can propel myself,
at rates and speeds beyond possible.
Locomotion and lived-in skin—
I’m a blood machine,
making the world move me.

Click, time, rhythm like sinus—
the health and life of it.
A few pistons sludge,
but it’s no worry until we’ve reached 100 thousand.

Cam and rocker, valves and power,
the dance of precision-cut stems and cups,
the plunge and the displacement,
all to a universal—
transmission and transfer,
low-geared and ready for the hill.

The miracle of traversing Terra firma
with absolute, drunk power.
Unleaded. High octane.
Firing to fling mud
and claw to want.

Transformative agency.
So much power.
And all you gotta do is turn this switch—
ignite and boom. Explosion contained.
Power directed and stolen.
It’s ours now.
Thank you, Mother Earth.

The freedom,
to change so much,
with the flip of ignition.

Surrounded by extensions.
I almost don’t do anything direct.
Everything has an arm or glove.
The pen and power of a single cylinder.

The seat takes my weight.
Piloting this avatar,
inside the belly of our steel beast.

Command all the mechs.
Do my will.
Respond.
Lag and delay—I need something more snappy.

Push. Pull. Turn.
Wheel, man.
Go left. Now right.
Just up here.
Okay, now go slower.

Turned up.
Open. Close.
Forward. Reverse.
Tow and truck.
Moving a ton
with a little foot compressions.

How could we not short circuit?
Disassembly. Maintenance.
So we can keep standing
on top of the world.

The cost
from here
to there.

What a mark
this one sentient
can leave.