The Man Man-Made Machine
A mine sits on a hill on the mountain bench where it is visible from everywhere, and yet most people ignore it even though its vast craters look unfamiliar and out of place like the entrails of the Earth spilled out over its belly.
And I am in it, blood up to my elbows, marching towards the monoliths that demand my daily supplications—a priest to unholy rituals.
All around me alters and idols in the act of profane communion, chewing up the sacrificial lamb, mixing flesh and digestive juices before spitting out the profit that our gods crave.
Sometimes I stand on the highest platform overlooking the massive ball mills, and for a moment, I can appreciate its majesty. For a moment, I feel like I belong: I am a cog in the machine, a wire from computer to meter. I have a place. I have purpose—
I am the Sweet stink, dark and violent
Rays of light in confinement
Full of teeth and never quiet
Long to leave but never try it
Mixers mixed with Jesus in velvet
Gold flakes fall from my helmet
Serving the gods I worship
Powering the American warship
Employer’s employee becomes the product
Move like current along their wire duct
The clay I mine is full of poisons
It feeds the violence, gives the boys guns
Builds an algorithmic secret—
If it made you rich you’d bet you’d keep it
My gods will try to turn a profit
They say get on, but I should get off it
They’ve influenced the influencer prophets
They’ve got me buttoned up in their pockets
I keep it running on my routine
The man man-made machine
-Cory Scott Shaw
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