they put me in dark blue scrubs
same hue as the samue working clothes of a Zen monk
and they give me to the machine
it sucks me in like a mosquito sucking blood through its proboscis
claustrophobia clutches at me
and I lay still, playing dead
but as I listen to the machine hum to itself
as it shakes my very atoms until they speak
I see that it embraces me
and sings to me
more mother than monster
more womb than tomb
here in the belly of a machine of loving grace
(as Brautigan said)
I close my eyes and relax in trust
trust that this monster magnet
(as Zappa said)
incarnates the best of its makers...us
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