Robert Jackson


Printers Are the Devil’s Spawn

They look so sleek on Amazon.
Their cantilevered DNA’s
a terminator replicon
that drains your bank and eats your days.

They’re cheap. They tempt you, stupid john.
Magenta, cyan, laserjet it.
Each cartridge costs a billion yuan—
those little black skirts. You’ll regret it.

You’re suckered in with silicon—
dump reams of slanted letterhead,
“Load Paper”, but the paper’s gone.
They keep on jamming like the Dead.

You’re told you’ve bought the Parthenon
with columns true as Doric marble.
Instead, your job’s a marathon.
They freeze, impediments that garble.

You’re nothing but a willing pawn
to evil ink that keeps injecting.
Each error sprouts a leprechaun
whose pot of gold you spend correcting.

Emmanuel! They won’t turn on.
Their hellp-line’s e-communiqué
protects them like the Pentagon.
Don’t pay them, throw the beast away.

A Guggenheim Fellow, Robert Jackson publishes science papers that aren’t funny ( His poems have appeared in Atlanta Review, Cortland Review, Cold Mountain Review, Southwest Review, and, inexplicably, Light.