re-animation begins with dissolving
a half-century of cosmoline statis —
mineral spirits are cheap, and like
all good solvents, coat your hands
in an invisible film of tack that
multiple trials of soap won’t strip,
and are volatile, wafting into large
spaces something mildly sweet
and most probably toxic.
i’m restoring life to someone’s former god.
a milled machine confidant that proved,
among other things, a patient scribe
to stories told loudly and only once,
written with strange scratches, dents, and
lead deposits to form a primary account on
history as nonrepudiable as it is undecipherable —
and in that there is both mystique and moral impunity,
majesty and oblivion, a tool living intermittently across
the generations of its own creators, because it was
engineered to both endure and admit their whims.
these are the days i feel a little bit more american.