IT (October)

You are IT, glassy golem to whom which what I pour my sole keyboard daily. Poets, their kooky habit of addressing Greek vases extends to this that you. Question-mark. IT you seem so inanimate, not animate enough, insensate. Your dictionary corrects errors, either it’s your spell or mine, what’s IT to be? Robot that I seem I submit my errors to thy endless book. My reliance taken for granted, unsympathetic pathetic symphonic odes to you rely on electricity, your California Dreaming. Is IT you-topia or just a bad trip? You tell me, as October clocks on and I crave green.