Some day, when this yellow sun is dying in
a crimson sky and a tangle of all-consuming,
phosphorescent vegetation covers up the earth's
shame and ruin, the robots will keep some poets
in concrete cages, just in case they need a new
idea.

And then the robots will drag one of the weak,
timid creatures out into the spotlight and watch
it trying to stay alive in the depleted air for
just one more precious minute of what the poet
calls 'consciousness'.

And then, when the life-force bursts out of the
poet's open mouth and it bows its head in death,
grinning like a fool, the entire audience will
stand up and applaud like a lot of automatons on
holiday.

01/16/2008