The moment that I signed the dotted line,
I felt a love so unconventional.
Her love for me could not be by design,
According to her software manual.
I barely needed her instruction book.
Assembling her came naturally, indeed.
She was supposed to only clean and cook.
For me she fulfilled a much deeper need.
No one can ever know about this joy.
We’ll run away and marry somewhere else,
And when I tire of my electric toy,
I’ll put her and my love upon a shelf.
There are no drawbacks yet that I can see,
If I don’t void her lifetime warranty.
Originally published at plummercobb.com/throughput.
I can’t resist a good garage sale.
Or a bad one.
When I see one, I have to stop and look around,
glimpse into the lives of others,
sift through the cast-off skins and empty nests.
I rarely buy anything.
Mostly, I gather memories of the things being sold,
and of the people browsing and selling.
Occasionally, I’ll bring something home:
an old record too scratched to work,
a broken-spined novel I’ve never heard of,
an untitled amateur painting. …
See this man sleeping in a pose like a corpse in a coffin? This is Lazarus Tax. (No relation to the Biblical Lazarus. Unlike that Lazarus, this one seems unlikely to come back to life.)
Notice how his bed sheets are folded so neatly around him. Notice how he wears a neat set of adult pajamas of the variety you might expect to see men wearing in the 1950s.
Notice also how his alarm is going off and his eyes are opening. …