Pulverize

The Death Machine says: “Pulverize, pulverize, pulverize, pulverize . . .” It just keeps saying that. — I think, if we remain inside of it, we might expire. 

Now we’re at the club and we’re hanging ourselves, using a strap to shoot something out. “Fact: we’re dangerous robots,” we remark. “Now let’s go drive the grappling truck.” And the machine says, “Pulverize, pulverize,” but then it stops and thinks and says: “You don’t got no goddamn grappling truck.” — We smile because we are the field as well as the track. The mom plus the dad. Rolling down the block over the hot June snow in the grappling truck with a motley crew of bots.