A vending machine in transition

With a long history of short circuits,

Delivered and then consigned  to blend in with the bushes,

Having been involved in dispensing

Snacks and books alike,

That both would

Sometimes get stuck for a moment,

And then be shaken free.

Change taken and change given,

Rejecting currency too rusty to be sunken treasure,

Rejecting currency folded one times to many.

…Essentially rejecting the cornerstone on which laundry was founded.

This distant relative of the

Archaic arcade machine,

(Albeit, adhering to similar lifestyles)

With its bingo numbers,

And glass chassis,

And three slots at the bottom,

(Where the food drops like fruit from a tree)

Three galvanized caves,

(Where the food hides like a caveman from an angry mastodon)

Three vacant bowling alleys.

(Where the pins go to sleep)

This  mechanical gargoyle labors on.

Ignoring  both eclipses and ellipses…

Dreaming of that angelic view from the roof,

But still,

Casting quite the shadow at noon.

This guardian of surplus,

This beggar,


This chooser.

This merchant, with a penchant for pennies,

Solicits  snacks

In front of a library,

Ignoring solstices of any variety,

& the children carrying snow-cones.

Carefully watching carefree fountains

Across the steamy parking lot,

Distribute thin geysers,




Similar to snarky card players, gnashing their teeth across a smoky table.

There will be no midnight customers.

(No last second kings or queens)

There will be only midnight cats,


Midnight noise,

Both of which are

Feral by nature,


Domestic in spirit.

 Despite the

Requisite moths,


The exquisite rain,

The  checkerboard pin-pad,

(Some numbers worn off, almost completely)

Still glows a radiant blue,

Flickering like a forgotten motel sign,

Advertising the most comfortable beds in the area! 

Instead speaking to the stars,

Conversing  with it’s creator,

(While holding an out-of-order sign)

The hungry transmissions  bounce from planet to planet,

Digesting the ingredients of each finished chapter,

& then

Regurgitating  the contents,

The finished product is a marvelous spell,

Sticky with glaze and magic,

Presented to some distant green eggs,

That exist well beyond lights,



Well past the barbed wire fences,

Well past the rivers of flowing milk…

Well past where the home-runs usually land.

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