The Plastic People
Jason L. Sanders
In a warm, softly lit Virginia cabin,
I was surrounded
By glowing amethyst crystals
And flickering candles.
I watched their light
Gently lick the grains
Of the exposed wooden beams.
I swallowed a purple pill.
Several minutes passed and I opened my eye--
Not knowing what I would confront.
Through a dissolving luminous mist
I recognized that I was on a train--
A crowded Tokyo commuter train.
It sliced through the rain and
Weaved through thousands of drab buildings and
Thundered by thousands of grey houses.
(Their awnings and windows rattled.)
An old man,
Wearing black robes and an evil smirk
Appeared by my side.
He whispered:
“Can you see the sagging, unsmiling faces
Etched and burned by unkind places?”
“Can you smell the sweat and quiet despair
As we hurtle through the humid Tokyo air?”
“Can you hear the strained and artificial voices
Of those unhappy with most of their choices?”
I turned away from the old man,
Who was unable to conceal his joy.
He cackled and danced a little jig
And declared with a twisted grin:
“Welcome, my son, my intrepid traveler.
Welcome to the Machine.”
