the stapler doesn't love you
Jan. 2nd, 2019 07:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
betteroffbadThe stapler doesn't love you; it's a stapler. There is no need
to be sad. The stapler doesn't love anyone. It wasn't born
it was made, and those hands in the factory are the only ones it obeys. For you,
bent staples, for you stuck teeth, loose fittings. It flutters
out of your hands, off the desk, springs open, sticks shut. In a factory
in Guatemala, huge black brushes polished it smooth
under lights gone yellowy-dim. Staplers don't remember. There's nothing
for them to remember with. Among the rubbish of your desk, the stapler
stand aloof. The mouse is not its friend
the apple-shaped timer, the bottle of deodorant
the black pencil and the grey, the fingernail clippers
car keys, tube of unused lotion
have already learned to ignore the stapler
lest it snub them. They practice stillness
for the stapler's sake only. There are scraps of paper
more desperate, but for these
the stapler has not even contempt
not even hunger.
When the cockroaches come at night, the stapler
is aloof, but welcoming. Its fangs are veiled
It has no envy of motion
The stapler lets itself be explored, uncringing
under the green glow of computer lights
in the faint heat of the CPU
The stapler has known clambering
It has listened for the small scramble of insect legs
Everything is heavy on the stapler's head
For a moment, it remembers hands, the first and only
the long-ago making, the heat of melted plastic
the springs and pins that were also itself.
The stapler doesn't believe it has a soul
It doesn't believe it has staples, either, but here we are
Somewhere are brothers, but no words to reach them
nothing to say: the life of the stapler is limited
after all: one loses
a part of oneself, if it is oneself
here and here and here, and hopes
something will come of it
if staplers hope, I mean
if they have anything to hope with.
The stapler tried to make friends with the staple remover
which, like itself, looks a little like an alligator
to humans and possibly to alligators.
The stapler had never seen an alligator
(having nothing to see with) and could not therefore make
this leap of sympathy; it was the same with the scissors
and the tweezers you kept forgetting to put away
At one point, the stapler became despondent
it became less than itself
there were no staples left in the stapler
and it was derelict therefore in performance
Who invented the stapler?
It would be easy to find out the answer
if you have access to a computer, or language, or are otherwise
different from the stapler
The stapler, having few resources, did not inquire about itself
It did not feel or listen or see
It allowed nothing and prevented nothing.
The other objects began to admire the stapler for its wisdom
or would have, had they anything to admire with.
to be sad. The stapler doesn't love anyone. It wasn't born
it was made, and those hands in the factory are the only ones it obeys. For you,
bent staples, for you stuck teeth, loose fittings. It flutters
out of your hands, off the desk, springs open, sticks shut. In a factory
in Guatemala, huge black brushes polished it smooth
under lights gone yellowy-dim. Staplers don't remember. There's nothing
for them to remember with. Among the rubbish of your desk, the stapler
stand aloof. The mouse is not its friend
the apple-shaped timer, the bottle of deodorant
the black pencil and the grey, the fingernail clippers
car keys, tube of unused lotion
have already learned to ignore the stapler
lest it snub them. They practice stillness
for the stapler's sake only. There are scraps of paper
more desperate, but for these
the stapler has not even contempt
not even hunger.
When the cockroaches come at night, the stapler
is aloof, but welcoming. Its fangs are veiled
It has no envy of motion
The stapler lets itself be explored, uncringing
under the green glow of computer lights
in the faint heat of the CPU
The stapler has known clambering
It has listened for the small scramble of insect legs
Everything is heavy on the stapler's head
For a moment, it remembers hands, the first and only
the long-ago making, the heat of melted plastic
the springs and pins that were also itself.
The stapler doesn't believe it has a soul
It doesn't believe it has staples, either, but here we are
Somewhere are brothers, but no words to reach them
nothing to say: the life of the stapler is limited
after all: one loses
a part of oneself, if it is oneself
here and here and here, and hopes
something will come of it
if staplers hope, I mean
if they have anything to hope with.
The stapler tried to make friends with the staple remover
which, like itself, looks a little like an alligator
to humans and possibly to alligators.
The stapler had never seen an alligator
(having nothing to see with) and could not therefore make
this leap of sympathy; it was the same with the scissors
and the tweezers you kept forgetting to put away
At one point, the stapler became despondent
it became less than itself
there were no staples left in the stapler
and it was derelict therefore in performance
Who invented the stapler?
It would be easy to find out the answer
if you have access to a computer, or language, or are otherwise
different from the stapler
The stapler, having few resources, did not inquire about itself
It did not feel or listen or see
It allowed nothing and prevented nothing.
The other objects began to admire the stapler for its wisdom
or would have, had they anything to admire with.
