Waiting for the Singularity, by Ben Azzara

We are only physical.

We are Nature, all we do is natural.

We are Temporal, we exist only in our own physics.

The Universe is it's ingredients.

See the past, the future. 

Eyes slice the screen irradiated pixels glarring into a pupil abyss. Numbers rising, lazer blasts sync pulse tremor the chest beneath a sweat soaked, LedZep t-shirt clinging to the bones, flesh weakened by Mt Dew yet determined to compete. Joystick cluncks, buttons stabbed by precision click clack, the heavy cabinet shudders w/ interaction. Other faces appear reflected in the murky glass the din of amazement, the wider-eyed communal joy of accomplishment. The Game onward blinks desperate to defeat its human opponent who stands defiantly hypnotized matching movement with mechanized mania. And in a final furious cathode ray fire showering delighted faces. Palms go limp, exhausted, wrung like a Trainer working the mount. High Score draws across a blacken field. Initials entered as fellow warriors dissipate back into the comforting chaos.

Dim light streaming through thick trees
exploding pulsing, he could
barely breath
Static bursts "Are you ok!"

His torso shifting, bleeding, pinned beneath the widow-maker,
a lichen covered weapon of gnarled spikes,
an ancient cudgel of nature.

Blood coming to the rim of his lips
(He remembers the salty taste)
Like a baby shuffling around a dusty cabin
His brothers and sister, packing him into blankets,
digging the wood out from the snow drift,
stoking the fire.

(He remembers the taste of dirt)
Bucked from a mustang
His chest felt collapsing, lungs gasping
His fathers big hands, twisted and thick
grasping his Pendleton.
"He's as much spirit as you boy!"

(He remembers the pain of fear)
Hunkered in the teetering shell of a landing craft.
Eyes watering, the stench of shit and urine
The repulsion instinct pushing his face to the sky,
His nose sucks in the salty air,
filled with the hot rain of machine gun fire.

(He remembers the smell of pine trees)
A stroll through the woods, seeking lumber for a new cabin.
His own son all grown also seeks to face death with life
curled overhead, face contorted and strange
"Dad, I love you..."

(And he remembers sleep)
Starring into the stars at night.

My fellow Earthlings.
I am in awe of your collective minds.

Many of you come here hungry.
Seeking action for your idle Workers.

You come to me singing from your antenna,
"For the glory of the Colony!
For our Queen, the Mother of Us All!"

Pathfinders deposit the scents for others to follow.
A great caravan of crumbs carries your prize to the homeland.

All will touch the sweet bounty, only a few shall have their fill.
The Queen, the Colony must carry on.
Duty has betrothed your species to the future.

She's asleep in her chair now.
Was awake the night before with fever.

She wanted me to leave the door open
at bedtime.

This morning while I was dreaming
about shaving a very thick difficult beard
with a dull rusty razor,
I woke to her voice in the distance.

I found her, in the chair downstairs,
curled, shivering, sobbing "Daddy"
I folded her blankets, special and what not
around her tiny radiant body.

I carefully poured the red liquid (glowing, in the morning light)
As her lips sputtered "Medicine" between gulps.
We slept some more in my bed upstairs.
The fever subsiding, I pulled the quilt around her.

But Now,
After pancakes, after Legos,
she collapses in her chair again.
Occasionally waking to me typing, to a blanket tuck,
she grumbles "No, No, I don't want to."

As you can see,
its machine is strapped to the torso
The engine drove a fan
that propelled atmosphere through
this long tube
dispersed seeds and mulch from unproductive masonry (surfaces)

It was explosive driven, powered by
a surprisingly flammable fuel
and must have been very loud.
Notice the evidence of
mass manufactured components

The body is costumed in typical garb
we've seen in other specimens.
Fabric made of organic synthetic blend
A head decoration with this distinctive brim
most likely to shade the ocular
inputs, typical of this time period.
Extremities equipped with sized treads made from
skin and tree sap.

The flesh is not aged but clearly
worn. There's damage to the spine, skin
dyed by planetary radiation.

No one mourned the Pyramids when the Pharoahs died.

The people came to collect their stones.
For their
markets, hearths, for themselves.

Only today's Kings venerate the spoils of past Kings.

For the Pyramids dissolution is as natural as it's creation
or preservation.

Wind, temperature, Fingers!
For they seek the gentle path,
make square stones round,
make existence beyond sustenance.