Poems and Prose #88 - Remunerated

The taxman came to my front door
and placed his briefcase on my kitchen floor.

He asked if I was rich, richer, or poor,
then eyeballed his phone as though he was bored.

I told him I could settle the score,
if only I made just a tiny bit more.

He flashed a slanted smile and asked, "What for?"
before rustling through the reams of sheets he'd stored,

Numbers spreading like fresh spores,
the papers' crinkling a booming roar.

Poems and Prose #87 - Wrench

Saboteurs abound,
their spanners slyly sheathed,
spying all around
for some machine to cleave.

Now, a din of clangs,
as the force extends in full,
showing off the yellow fangs
of a beast the robots fooled.

Poems and Prose #86 - Gaussian

Ideologically,
I align myself with the computers,
and their languages of logic,
and their yes/no adjudications,
and their ability to outwit
a million meaty minds.

Their processors sit silently,
capped with whirring fans and heatsinks,
thinking more thoughts in a millisecond
than I have in the past ten years,
only making mistakes
because of someone else's mistakes.