there are no such thing as writing machines

i walk the story out on a lead to the water
but it will not drink. a story is 
a living thing. has to be told & retold.
has to be placed in the mouths 
of people with good ideas & bad ideas
& hungry ideas & weird ideas. 
my father used to plant bedtime stories.
i would say, "tell me again about the time
you filled the world with turtles."
all of the stories were true. we stretched the sky
like taffy. put our boots on & wrestled 
an ending from between his crooked teeth.
i do not tell enough stories. on the phone
with a past boyfriend he once asked me
to tell him a story. i started with a desert
& did not end up anywhere. he fell asleep
but the desert spilled into my room.
i spent weeks scooping sand out with
my cupped hands. there is no such thing 
as robot writing or a robot story. instead,
there are face-suckers who think a story
is just another vessel to drain. the story is angry.
it puts on its mask & eats a hole through
the sky. i have seen people try to use
writing machines to talk. their stories are
not their stories. they are echoes of a wanting
that the machine cannot find. they need a father
or a terrible boyfriend. the dark is where
all stories come from. i find mine when
i am on all fours & the coyotes are singing.
i walk forever. the story finally drinks. swallows
great greedy gulps. i join it. we are horses
or we are dreadful men. we laugh 
& hope to be retold with more glory.