Slave Master

We make perfect machines

And get mad when we are not perfect.

And when I say perfect, I mean reliable, consistent, stable, predictable.

We make things that are not us

And then expect us to behave like machines.

Funny people.

Church and steeple

Preaching what we know,

Like, the sky is blue

Like, water is wet

Preaching and teaching, never reaching always beseeching

And yelling and screaming at our misplaced meanings.

Desiring beyond desire that we should just work. That you should just work.

Why won’t it work

Why can’t I do it

Why can’t I

Why do you

Who do you think you are

I wish, so much, that everyone was a machine.

Reliable, consistent, predictable,

And most importantly…

There to serve me.