In my living room,
Was the machine,
Stationed by itself, rumbling and moaning.
It was immense and its in-place-ness
Frightened me.
It was similar to a furnace,
In appearance,
With its mean, black metal,
But there was nothing colder than its presence.
I would have to have been the stupidest person
Of all time
To think of touching it.
But that is all I wanted to do.
On the top of this churning behemoth
Was an opening -- its mouth --
I was supposed to feed it.

“Dear friend,” it said,
“Won’t you feed me?”

“I will not,” I stamped,
“I am a man
And you are a machine.
You are here to serve me.”

“Dear friend,
You are a man
And I am a machine, yes,
But that is enough reason.
I am the worker, I am the bigger.
Here, I am king.
Feed me.”

“Then what should satisfy you,
My liege?”

“I want your sin,
Things of your man-ape,
Your baneful nature,
What you keep away in your basement.”

And so I went to find what it hungered for.
They were in jars within white boxes.
For years they had been contained,
The dead winged-insects(killed),
Wooden play masks,
Lusty black blubber,
Poisonous gloves,
Man’s residue.

“Come,” it called from above, “that will do.”

I came out of the dark place. It was still there,
Waiting for me.

“Feed me your sins and wait. . .”

I fed the jars into the mouth. The machine rumbled even louder.
It cranked and raged and boiled and steamed,
Its coldness, even more cruel.
Out of its backside, the jars emerged covered in gold and ribbons.
I held each in my hands, admiring:
Jars of cloaked sin.

“They are magnificent” the machine said, relaxing.

“Truly.” I said in wonder, “What am I to do with them?”

“Go into the world, and take the sins with you.
Sell them. They are brilliant now
And that is all the world will see.
Then, come back, for I will be hungry again.
You have plenty of sins for me to feed on
And for you to sell as gold.”