my morning machine

I am a morning machine

that wakes in method.

Protocol running through me

calling to my pants and shirts

and socks to assemble,

to cover up my perversity.

I am a morning machine

complete with a subroutine

to walk downstairs

to drink coffee

to tie up boots

to take a vitamin.

I am a morning machine

but I am not without run-time errors,

miscalculations and bugs.

They can turn me into a lackey

that fakes sickness,

writes bad stories, drinks coffee all day

until beers at lunch time.

But I am searching in the code

for rogue algorithmic prose

that inherently prioritizes its own

foreboding zeros and ones—although

it is difficult to tell

because they blend so well

with the code I want to keep.