Robotica

He spent all day on the internet battling atheists.
Ripping bongs and smoking fancy colored cigarettes.
Hours compiled––he couldn’t leave his computer.
Engorged in the back and forth; he transcribed the universe.
Beside him on the table––a mountain of trash.
He pours himself a victory vodka and juice.
They got nothing on robotica is all he can conclude.
He smells like healthy grandiosity and a burgeoning dream.
“God is a robot; one day those motherfuckers are gonna understand.”

In his mind he is a soaring eagle with a broken talon––
Still he catches the fish––
But he looks like a busting fire hose––
Proving wrong the myth of the hiltless sword.
His panache is bewildering.
His confidence––Fonzie-otic.
His aura––electric and unbreakable––a forcefield of belief.
High on his insanity––over the edge and misunderstood––
Deep in the realm of a shadowy hood;
It is impossible to prove him wrong.
They want him to eat pills and open his eyes.
Too bad his motto is stay crazy or die.

A stream of conviction is a beautiful sight
if the fluid is alien
and its logic is right.
May the voice in his head be a north star in the night.


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