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.
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.