Revision number I-don’t-know-how-many of a poem once called “Wreckage.”


Plebes engineered in programs,
poured into progress’s molds,
preached from the altered world’s altars,
scriptures of innovation,
new epics of a dawning world.

Cybernetic Prometheus’
motherboard liver waits to be torn
from his body by the eagle.
The eagle, winged justice cites
dynamic equilibrium.

Did hubris unleash the fire for us?
From the wood? From lightning?
Have we really since leashed it
as we leashed the wolf in a village
commissioned then bred her to become

A toy we produce in a mill?
A toy at our feet?
A toy that fetches your children a toy?
A toy? Just a


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