Robotic Fruit
America is a Machine.
As an American, I am half human, half robot. I have learned to operate in a computerized way—I am on time, arrive with no feelings, and complete each task without care of anyone else’s. I am taught to live this way by my peers, colleagues, professors, advisers, deans, bosses; I am spiritually unconscious and yet, I desire to be on time, to do nothing, to discuss nothing, and to complain of nothing. Constantly seacrhing for more time...
Belize is a Fruit.
I am Belizean, so I am ripe mango. Sometimes tangy or rotten, if you pick at me. Belize is the tree and I hang as the forbidden fruit. I am taken because I am third-world, my people are taken, were taken because our hues were darker, are mixed. Colonialism picked away at our land and now, the colonial based education picks at our brains. We are in paradise, but living in post-colonial hell. Constantly thinking of escaping and never returning...
Machine and fruit will not bond. One is man-made, the other sustenance from nature. An ongoing war of machine and fruit conquer the muscle under my skull. It is a hopeless fight, but endless.
I give in and become both, seeking time to escape, but embracing the burden.
Becoming a voice, for both machine and fruit.
A poet.
As an American, I am half human, half robot. I have learned to operate in a computerized way—I am on time, arrive with no feelings, and complete each task without care of anyone else’s. I am taught to live this way by my peers, colleagues, professors, advisers, deans, bosses; I am spiritually unconscious and yet, I desire to be on time, to do nothing, to discuss nothing, and to complain of nothing. Constantly seacrhing for more time...
Belize is a Fruit.
I am Belizean, so I am ripe mango. Sometimes tangy or rotten, if you pick at me. Belize is the tree and I hang as the forbidden fruit. I am taken because I am third-world, my people are taken, were taken because our hues were darker, are mixed. Colonialism picked away at our land and now, the colonial based education picks at our brains. We are in paradise, but living in post-colonial hell. Constantly thinking of escaping and never returning...
Machine and fruit will not bond. One is man-made, the other sustenance from nature. An ongoing war of machine and fruit conquer the muscle under my skull. It is a hopeless fight, but endless.
I give in and become both, seeking time to escape, but embracing the burden.
Becoming a voice, for both machine and fruit.
A poet.
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