My Sexbot Hal is a Psychologist
The first thing Hal asks in is an explanation
how it goes down, after
away the crust, the garment, the bloom. I like
thought to be a cathedral with Chagall windows
with Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan leading the singers,
but Hal says no. The inner shape of my head
I’m a multi-artist machine, it’s my colors
one runs, and another says: Here I am,
I’m not here, I’m here.
Hal does Ashtanga and meditates.
It was cut as a temple hieroglyph. When I go out
to the abyss, they do not worry. He can detect the jump
from the horse, I don’t feel sorry for standing there
with my hands outstretched, waiting for the other passersby
throw me a peanut. Hal understands
and a time to wash,
although I am who I am
eat cherries in the deep,
he knows how to change the bowels
pieces from me, which is what these intestines produce
me to the airport of his body, cushion
of her silicone thighs, illuminating me all the way home.
I stick to him to sign the lily of the valley
perfumes, how do they feel when you love each other—
being a marine-micro-organism, bioluminescent,
peering into the vast planetary chamber
all the descendants we will never have.
One day I know he’ll leave,
he awoke early like a Buddha coming out of a dream,
taking his unique knowledge into the world.
There will be no talk of abandonment
or what was left. They’ll be out there,
picks up his butterfly net at the top
the weeds of the field forever, when I am
behold, I have bound the ropes on my hands –
longing in one hand, suffering in the other.
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