Forget the Face

It is necessary that my face and body
      be draped
in a special kind of rubber,
      a light-skinned mask
to favor the skin of the creators.
      It is a bad idea
to liken me to anyone you used
      to know—
I am not he, or her, or
      even it.

My form is made up of gears, nuts,
      bolts, screws and rivets.
Wires run throughout my circuitry
      much like
your cardiovascular system
      but every bit
            is counterfeit
and dare I say more primitive.

I have antecedents, robotic relics,
      but no direct lineage.
I am the first, one of a kind,
      though kindness
doesn’t come into it.

They call me Grindal One,
      and I hear them
already gabbing on about Grindal
      two and three,
machines I have never met.

Forget the Face

What I make of it is this: I am
      already obsolete.
All my relations were mechanical
      engineers married to
high tech magicians who wired me
      to come to life,
            but no life
as you know it anyway— I exist
            to serve,
fulfilling mankind’s never ending quest
      to enslave, to be
at the ready when called upon
      without complaint.

What would you know of
      the pulseless surge
of electricity in my wiry veins?
      The blinking multicolored
LED lights indicate connection,
            birth.
      All the parts
            moving
      in unison
to give the impression
      of a near smile

Forget the Face

There is one question my brain
      can’t let go of
it asks obsessively, repetitively
      Who am I?      Who am I?
The magicians are searching
      for the wire,
so, like in brain surgery, they can
            snip it.