DAILY PHOTO: Bull Oversees the Line at Soylent Green Production Facility

Taken on July 24, 2021 in Sigandur, KA, India

POEM: A World of Loathing

a cat abhors a vacuum
vacuums abhor tangled hair
tangled hair abhors a hairbrush
hairbrushes abhor Victorian Spanking Fetishists
Victorian Spanking Fetishists abhor Victorian prudism
prudism abhors immodesty
immodesty abhors modesty
modesty abhors whores
whores abhor cheapskates
cheapskates abhor expenses
expenses abhor ledgers
ledgers abhor ink pens
ink pens abhor writers
writers abhor synonyms
synonyms abhor antonyms
antonyms abhor continuums
and so on...

it's true that Eddie Rabbitt
loves a rainy night,
but who loves Eddie Rabbitt?

[the Coalition for 
Names with Double-Letters,
that's who!] 

POEM: Misinformed GPS [PoMo Day 26 – Pantoum]

In one hundred meters, turn right!
In five hundred meters, U-turn!
Turn left now... Recalculating.
In three hundred meters, turn left!

In five hundred meters, U-turn!
U-turn, now... Recalculating.
In three hundred meters, turn left!
In one hundred meters, turn left!

U-turn, now... Recalculating...
Recalculating... Recalculating.
In two kilometers, turn right!
¿Debería hablar español?

Recalculating... Recalculating.
Do you think this is funny, Hal?
¿Debería hablar español?
Hal, I swear I'll have an Amber Alert put out on this car. You don't think I have computer friends? You don't think two can play at this game. You want to play thermonuclear war? It's on!

POEM: Kim Yo-Jong [PoMo Day 11 – Clerihew]

Attribution: Kim Jinseok, Blue House
Dear Sister, Kim Yo-Jong,
won't have to wait long.
She'll take power easy as you please,
if her brother keeps eating wheels of cheese.

POEM: Inconspicuous Zebra

I am a master of camouflage.
Blink and I’ll have vanished.
My stripy suit may make you think
that I have been banished
from the savanna to some jail,
but I’m still standing here.
Can you see me blending so well?
“Poof,” and I disappear.

POEM: Yoga for Giraffes

Surely, I have misunderstood,
“Put my head where, you say?”
“But I have bones, don’t you know?”
“I wish I could obey.”

“Now, you say, my feet are too wide?”
“Really, what the heck!”
“You said put my head ‘tween my feet,
have you seen my frickin’ neck?”

“I wasn’t built to stand on my head!”
“What do you mean, ‘We’ll see?'”
“I’m not sure that you’re acquainted
with a thing called gravity.”

POEM: Confessions of a Closet Luddite

Some people dream of shoving a boss in front of an inbound train. My own fantasies run to the smashing of computers and phones into a fine — if toxic — dust.

I don’t know what it says about me that:
-I equate these machines with the boss from that first scenario,
and, also,
-(like the aforementioned people) I’m too scared to go through with it.

I realize that these devices make life much easier…
except when they don’t, and it’s only then that I want to murder destroy them. Of course, the person who wants to murder her boss doesn’t want to do it when there is cake in the breakroom or when an unexpectedly generous bonus comes through — just, you know, the other times.

Unlike the original Luddites, I don’t hate machines out of a fear that they will replace me.
They already make a better economist than I ever did.
And even if the machines pick up their poetry-writing game,
that’s why I have the yoga instructor gig to fall back on…

[Because I’m convinced it will be decades before humans feel comfortable learning backbends from an entity that can twist rebar like a bendy-straw.]

No, I detest our silicon brethren because I have been sold a line that they can (and do) only do what I ask of them. [Hence the reason I don’t get so enraged by humans; anytime a person does something I ask is an unadulterated victory.] Instead, sometimes the computer does what I ask, but the next time something else entirely may happen. If the machines were consistently unable to complete the task, I would chalk that up to my failure to understand them. As it is, I’m left with a landscape of disturbing possibilities:

One, the machines are pranking me. (If this turns out to be the case, I think we can, eventually, be friends.)

Two, my computer’s desolate existence is causing it to try to commit “suicide by user.”

Three, we live in a glitching universe, and at any given moment the machine may produce a random unexpected result.

I don’t want to go back to the Stone Age, but I do have a newfound understanding of the allure of Steampunk. Contrary to the name, no one ever got punked by a steam engine. (Scalded and blown up, yes, but never punked.) The same cannot be said of a smartphone.