Scheduled Maintenance

Standard

Tinkering is the art of incrementalism.

The heart grows fonder with each quarter-turn of a socket wrench,

I invest my time to top off her fluids when she’s running low,

Check the tread on her tires,

Pull out any dents,

Because she can’t do that on her own.

In return,

she gets me where I need to go,

and only asks of me,

that I put in the time.

She works for me,

and I her

I’m just happy to help.

Distortion

Standard

distortion

The well-timed,

precisely aligned,

Cathode ray tube display

found in old television sets,

is thrown into disarray,

with the pole of a strong enough magnet.

Perception becomes reality,

then misconceptions set-in,

which threaten the image.

You have to get in,

to reset

and rearrange things,

back to parity-

a return to clarity.

When you come to

and see the true view,

you’ll wonder how you

made due

with skewed hues.

Vinyl

Standard

Walking,

Blindfolded,

Through the annals,

Feeling the walls,

And using echolocation.

The ancient texts,

Sacred incantations,

Chants of legends,

Contained in texture,

To be deciphered,

By a stylus,

Which cannot,

Transcribe.

Each pressing,

With its own,

Character.

Each batch with,

It’s own,

Flaws,

Hissing,

Popping,

Scratches,

Not even counting,

The shattered ones.

Revolutions,

Dictate,

No matter,

How convoluted,

The labyrinth,

Until it’s time,

To switch,

To the other side.

Exact Replicas

Standard

Formulaic conveyance,

Each step of the way,

With programmed patterns,

Robotic arms,

Outfitted with pincers,

And cutting implements.

Each drone,

Making clones,

With their own tasks honed,

Couldn’t do it alone.

Though it lacks the imagination,

And dizzying whimsey,

Of his creations,

Rube Goldberg would be proud,

That his machinations,

Weren’t so far-fetched,

After all.

Tungsten

Standard


Let there be light,

Turn the knob twice,

Curled, Coiled,

Incandescent filament.

Glowing white-hot,

Between two prongs,

Until it all stops,

And pops-

A blue spark,

Flashes twice as bright,

When it’s burned for too long.

It all comes crumbling down,

Rolling around,

Disembodied,

In the bell jar.

You’re distracted,

By the floating, bluish,

Inkblots that slide,

Away from your line of sight.

You ask yourself “how many idiots does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

But instead of answering, you quietly exit,

To find a replacement.