Returning to the purple machine and what that could be

The pen has callouses
                    Have you heard?

It's time to clean up the mess that is my lunch
          Bread crumbs and orange peel
laid out like the schmatics of the purple machine
          Only really, I never got to look at it
I liked the sound of the words together.

The fingers are clumsy so the keys speak for themselves.

The future is like a chalkboard
          locked away and darker than the mildewed basements acting as their graves

there are no factories left willing to produce the chalk.

I dress myself every morning with older rags
          waiting for the accumulated sand to fall out
maybe I can gather it and sell
it would be good if it could be melted down for glass.

Like me, I am see-thru without reflection
          folding each smaller piece of paper tighter
unmarked
it makes the trashcan regardless
humorless
leaving the faintest sense of itself
          that's an uneven jest
I'm still thinking about the purple machine and the sand
          I can't even process what's supposed to come next.