Gubbish

Oh god, I've seen inside, and it looks like
A set of wires and rubber bands and cogs
All gone askew, hooked up to it a mic
That amplifies the squeaks and squeals along
The length of you. I woke up in a book
Of Phil K Dick's, and now I can't unsee
What I took in behind your bug-eyed look,
And now I wonder if the same, in me,
Is what you've noticed. Were we both replaced
With broken down machines? Was tenderness
Illusory, a program badly traced
Into our circuitry until, I guess
It failed? Debugging skipped, we've gone straight to
The gubbish phase. Yet still I've love for you.

It Lives! In Which The Lost Robot Head Of Philip K. Dick Speaks Again

The valley most uncanny stretches wide,
E'en when we don't throw in an icon, such
As Philip K. Dick. My guts twist inside
To watch this. He'd have liked it very much,
At least at first. The android's had a long
And storied history, losing its head
In transit years ago. But such a wrong
Cannot go uncorrected, he'd have said
(Unless he said to trash the whole damned thing,
Or put somebody else's on there. He'd
Approve of Linda Rondstadt. "Make her sing
Again!" he'd say, and thus approve the deed).
I think I'm glad the head has been rebuilt,
But find it still quite creepy, to the hilt.

In Which I Dream Like An Android

I've waited long to see how this would be:

A graphic novel of Philip K. Dick's

Most famous work. Now I have it. With glee

I say it's what I'd hoped for. 'Mong its tricks

Are faithfulness to Dick's work that's beyond

My expectations, as well as design

Of chracters that's expressive and fond.

While on the brink of being just a fine,

Fine picture-book, it has moments of grace

As heart-wrenching as some of Dick's best prose

(Jack Isidore in body and in face

Tugs 'specially at me). Now as it grows

To twenty-four issues I'll watch, quite pleased,

If it continues as well as it's teased.