Man is a juicy machine–
a talking sack of fluids,
no soul, I mean

no aura, no spirit seen.
If you ask druids
if man is a juicy machine

they’ll say he’s a stream
in sync with all the gods,
but no soul.  I mean

well, though I seem
cold, inhumanly rude
to say man is a juicy machine

at best, but I’ve seen
man at his worst, his crude
soullessness, I mean,

and I say this to stay sane,
to make sense of all blood shed.
Man is a juicy machine–
no soul, I mean.


The Ignorant One

I hope the one that I insulted back
when I was on a high horse doesn’t still
remember me and feel a little sick.
He said that books are dead.  I said they will

appear that way to you who cannot spell
or read, who brags he got an education
but read no books and pissed his time to hell.
I was angry, mopping floors with one

who screwed around, apparently had fun
every school night I was so damn nervous
dodging B’s, sure that education
conquers.  It came down to bitterness:

I was jealous he made more than I–
school had failed him, I had failed me.



About the poet:

Marc Darnell is a floor tech and online tutor in Omaha NE, and has also been a phlebotomist, hotel supervisor, busboy, editorial assistant, farmhand, devout recluse, and incurable brooder– leading to near auto collisions. He received his MFA from the University of Iowa, and has published poems in The Lyric, Eclectic Muse, Skidrow Penthouse, Shot Glass Journal, The HyperTexts, Candelabrum, Quantum Leap, Aries, Ship of Fools, Open Minds Quarterly, The Fib Review, Verse-Virtual, Blue Unicorn, and The Pangolin Review among others.