The Poet of Bologna

Even as you begin to begin
Your pencil to the paper
Nose to the grindstone
The pressure pressing down
The words on the paper a presence pushing back

But it's all inside your mechanical head
The pen and paper
The pressure and the beginning

Nothing more than electrical shorts within your mechanical mind
A stainless steel dream fueled by belts and steam
As your arm relentlessly slices bologna
Steadily and evenly
Stacking it up and sending it along
In an endless progression of cooked meat paste product

In your dreams you are a writer
A poet most mighty
Rhyming with ease
Wearing naught but a tighty whitey

The meat factory real is blocked away
Smelling of stray pink slime
Always in front of you
Yet many dimensions away

Ye mighty bologna slicing robot
Pause for a moment for a quick sterile wipedown
Beginning again at the press of a shiny red button
Cutting product mindlessly
While simultaneously worlds away parsing verbs and assorted nouns