Machines of God

Tin Mo was mule. He carry up hill down to village. Swatted with stick day long. He make us money. He carry us food. He eat us scraps. No complain. Only move he make to ease his existence was to clear the flies momentarily from his ears with quick flip. This bastard intermixture. This nothing object. This burden beast.
Why does Tin Mo not kill us in the night?, i wondered as child, Why does he not strike back with strong feet when we stand behind, pressing down his back with load?
I remember now Tin Mo. He part of us. He part of me. Why fight what is part, even when it pain. Even when it not see you, use you, turn you to earth machine. I feel him in my feet, up migrating to class in university city. He part. He me. I carry burden of past in mind. Tin Mo history-past memory-piece that keep me complete in quick stream of commercial bulletin shards. My feet strong, plodding, forward heavy up hill. In info-ocean I move solid through image-waves.
Desolation, yes. Hesitation, no.


Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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