Genie Of The Klein Bottle
Poem By Michael Brosky
I am swallowed by a Klein Bottle
Everything and nothing is on the surface
To the shrill chuckle of a tree-creeping bird
It laughs at in and out and up and down
Reducing everything and nothing to a liquid of time
Serfs and servants to flashes of plasma and none
I am bottled in a Klein Bottle
By electricity and wires we erase
Fed by a god called Technology and its faulty word
UP and down like chuckling birds we are bound
Pulses and fades through a crooked moral spine
Trapped when the power goes out and it is done
I am done
I tell you once and for all
Friends cannot be through wire
It all drains to cosmic fire
And it is done
For time houses not light
I am spilled from a Klein Bottle
Blood poured out and blood back in
To this pecking vulture with unlimited death
It keeps a beat that never has to update
Tapping over and over wireless and without a keyboard
Savages of fad and feigned feeling
I am wine converted in a Klein Bottle
No motion or movement just another spin
Another beat, another initiative, another breath
So nothing is fest for another kind of fate
Reduced to being sent by power and cord
Can that be called growing or is it just dealing?
So drink up, drink up from the Klein Bottle
The elite have this all well in hand
Monitors and managers for the clinging flocks
Never to be mastered before the system changes
Just another rotting tree for bugs and worms
Just another charade for false belief
So we are trapped souls in the Klein Bottle
A clown clock for the falling sand
To the shrill, chuckling minutes of incorrect clocks
It is all one surface we are exchanging
While our attention falters, fades, and squirms
Formatted and saved for the master thief
Make three wishes
Send it out
Who does it reach?
How can you believe this?
How can you find feeling
As you power down?
Who have you replaced?
Who have you bottled and for what?
Do you hear the shrill chuckle of a tree-creeping bird?
What lesson is it laughing at?
Peck by peck
The tiny wheel in the center of the screen spins
We are all one surface
We have no volume
The tiny wheel in the center of our soul spins
Loop after loop