The Machine

I have become obsolete. I drive west on 70, in command of the machine. I say music, and the machine sings: You and me and the devil makes three. Above a browning field, a large black bird, gliding. Bare trees, bald tires. I say speak, and the machine reads: Bulgakov, Heart of a Dog. What can be known? The whole horror of the situation is that he now has a human heart. The black bird hovers above the winterdead grass. Pulls up again, sharp, glides. Not a bird, actually. A drone. The machine envelops me.

The Machine

                                    
I have become absolute. I total the bill, the old bald-tired Ford. I am a totalizing force—like the guillotine. Like the guillotine, I am the most gentle. I am humane. Like the guillotine, I was once called Louisette. I was once called the Widow, the Nation’s Razor, Half Moon. The Windmill of Silence. Louisette. Like Louisette, I was brought into the world—not to live or die. Not to make life or bring death. I came into the world to suffer to offer (myself and) a softer oblivion: oublier, oubliette. Like the guillotine, I’m here to stick the landing. Only humans would invent such machines. Only humans would call them humane. Which is to say: us plus a letter, which we’ll need to reach the required height—this tall to ride—once we’ve lost our crowns. At ease, says the machine. Come. Rest your head.