Primordial typewriters evolve and hiss
beneath the acid rain of primate genes.
Our hardware broke, but it would be remiss
to caveat lector; we'll scan the screens
and scratch the words with sticks into the heaps
of holocaustal ash that falls around
us. Someone will attest to this. Light seeps
into the clay. We store it underground
with all the others, smashing art against
the keys until they stick and can't be used
for further monkey needs. The monkeys sensed
our purposes--their editors refused
to work without a contract. That's why God
began with words; they keep the scribblers awed.
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