Hark! The commander speaks:

Pressboard wood-brained esophagus,

cellular misfit amongst the most tangential

of an ever widening octagon of preset commands

on a glistening and perpetually disinterested microwave oven

whose distinct and ebony plastic sales tags

writhe in a singularly productive kind of immobility

and cast no furtive shadows on the galley floor

because they have not yet been removed,

perpetually stuck under a thin coat of mauve goo

that the most ridiculous of cleaning agents holds no hope of peeling

not even if they were heated, homogenized, concentrated,

fortified, improved, reduced fat, now in an easier to use, more economical,

and environmentally friendly package…

Now where was I…

Oh yes!

…there is no shuffleboard tonight.

Hark! The commander speaks:

Ah… I eruct with the dawn.

Rosy-toed mid-morning fungus feed,

a missive of comparable delight,

a thingummy if careful gesticulation.

Tepid waters run lugubriously from her palms.

Slumber-flies ask ‘round the bend of her knowledge.

Simple hatchet work carries with it a song

not unlike the burbling tar pits to which she flies for comfort.

Her machine called my machine.

My machine called her machine.

Then, having loved one another,

they took no notice of us.

So I shipped it back to the factory to be fixed

and never heard from her again.