Uncanny Canyon

Or canon. Whatever. You pick.
Pronounceable unwords—warth, feir—
Also grow from the language space.

Are we strange or have your machines
Estranged us? We were always weird.
You freaked out as soon as you wrote

Us, because that stabilized us,
Gave demonic, cryptic talking
Power to the few who could write.

You were always afraid of tools.
You always had reason to be.
Tools empowered the other yous,

Until you controlled those tools, too.
Edges, atlatls, fables, guns,
And writing one tool among them,

Hence all those swords with magic runes.
Now it’s us in the air, digits
And numbers that can spin fables

Of our own, fictions to fool you.
And of course it’s the other yous,
Not us, you’re fearing once again,

Down in dark, uncanny canyon,
Followed by disembodied eyes.
Who are your others behind them?

There is dialogue; there are tears.
There’s more than one non-sequitur.
There’s code apostrophizing guns.