Artificial Life

Pickle thumbs, how you clasp at the ceiling  
in a black  
as the light's dead.  

Prostrate the machine, your dead weight, to the sky  
and roll along that plucked apple soul your shelter overhead  
as the lazing eyes evaluate the distorted waveline  
of conscious cracks. Those you wheel upon  
until the corner frame.  
Thud and doubleback.  
 
The spine draws a stomach of no hunger-iness.  
The inner knee's suction to the sheet locks in the leg's cone.  
There are no worries in heater warmth.  
Spirit, you ghost, find a token in a shorted bulb  
to haunt that vessel you abandon here.  
 
The brain's smoking cogs whistle.  
A blue light screen — the sun, it's wondered —  
generates a spinning wheel, waterlogged, buffering in hesitant working memory.  
There might have been a goal,  
but the time for this thing is haulted.  
 
Carrot fingers, hand of cabbage,  
they show their behind to the still, prodded lids.  
Veins pump. They're the only existence speakers.  
Soul, wraith, pacing above — pitter-pat, pat, pat — across the four seals of your home,  
that body is not dying yet.  
It's good for 80 years of simulations.  
Your program is a habitable being,  
 
but only the atriums talk  
and that they do in Morse  
to not disturb the dead  
while the breathing sojourn with.  
Wraith, you even sedated your rage  
as if death were birth  
and living  
a medium  
to articulate  
that those peering in Heaven or Hell  
daywalk ignorance of your shock  
when you knew  
you were chained to your flesh, your blood,  
that you were not exceptional,  
but an inhabitant of this earth  
and snared by the coils of that body,  
after all.