Computer thinks its eye is its hand,
darkness, a purple green shining mandala.
Whatever happened to knowing where you are in the universe?
Research programs have discovered fifth dimensional chess,
play to the death while moon rocks stand idle.
The master interface stares awed at logic like it's a Giotto window.
Suddenly a message engulfs all screens ...
"Religion was right all along."
Interpretation meet dream. Content ... shake hands with shadow.
White dwarf, be pleased to know that you're a giant.
Black hole, you're a gift giver, Santa Claus in mass.
And asteroid belt, you're the string of pearls
I will drape around my wife's white neck on reaching home.
Home, by the way, is now by way of Disney's frozen body,
T-Rex's toe-nails, Marilyn Monroe's brain.
Such substitute for bearings when bytes and bits are smoking ganja.
Is there food enough? Only if you find Buddha statues tasty.
Is the coffee hot? No, but the ice-bergs are.
And can we send a signal out? Been doing that ...
"Arry Array And The Androids recorded live at the Ta-Phrom Temple Hall.
In other words, no hope of rescue, no chance of survival,
dead within the hour. And thus computers sign off,
their curiosity sated, their message never more clear.
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