POEM: Believing Machines

Humans are believing machines.
If one can imagine a thing,
one can make it one’s reality.

Under an infinite night sky,
with nothing to grasp in one’s hands,
the mind still seizes its fair share.

But the test of whether one can
grab onto something new is whether
you can let go of the old.

POEM: Dead Woods [Rubaiyat]

In wild and wicked woods, I walk.
Convinced the winds carry strange talk.
In grumbles heard — no meaning grasped —
faux whispers won’t tell — only squawk.

The voiceless voices make it wicked.
I’m surrounded by a dense thicket.
I hear what’s not there — seeing naught.
I catch, I think, just one snippet…


Oh why would woods say such a thing?
I feel it like a toxic sting.
Be still, that beating in my chest.
The bile, in throat, is now rising.

I only sought a forest bath,
but incurred this old forest’s wrath.
Oh, what have I interrupted,
while trodding down this ill-worn path?

Clouds & Mountain Haiku

clouds enshroud
mountainous monoliths
faking world’s end

gnarled tree
growing from a crack
in worn rock

waiting to fall
precarious rock column
stands in rock time

the clouds rise
revealing split rock —

god’s bonsai
a faint tracing seen
through cloud webs

Merchants of Misinformation, or: After the Infocalypse

People were too high on pseudo-vindication to mourn the death of journalism. Each day they got a tsunami of information and information-like content that confirmed the world was as they believed (and wanted) it to be.

No matter where one fell on the political spectrum, one could find a site that would ensure that not a single wrinkle of cognitive dissonance would ever befoul one’s brow. Uncomfortable and inconvenient facts were weeded by roving teams of hourly workers.

One might think being a merchant of misinformation would be easy work, having no concerns about factuality. Verification — at most — required a positive focus-group score, rather than time-consuming and often unfruitful research.

But, the shear volume of keeping people hip-deep in content required off-shoring to destinations where one’s readers’ heroes and villains were often unknown. It was hard for the meme-makers in Moscow and Manila to keep square who pleased which Americans. How could the cubicle-dwellers construct appropriate quotes to attach to pictures if they weren’t sure if that person was on the naughty or nice list. Heaven forbid a staffer mislabel a photo — putting it in the “loved” and not the “loathed” folder. Worse yet, what if an actual quote from the pictured person was attached? Talk about egg on the face.

Headline: Meme-Maker Mistakes Condoleeza Rice and Maxine Waters, Human Head Explodes

[Fortunately, the explosion was captured on video and will make a sweet meme.]


In the past, archaeologists had few fragments with which to reconstruct dead civilizations. After the Infocalypse, the archaeologists will be in an ocean of information, thirsting for a fact.

POEM: Ghost of Cosmos Future

I’ve seen these fleeting glimpses of the world.
They dissolve — memories of dream soon lost,
and leave me longing to see raw, rich truths —
the craving lies — a deep itch in the mind.

The ghost of cosmos future threatens me.
It shows me worlds with all the wrongs righted,
and asks if I’d push a button of change,
and feel my suffering grow in exchange.

And would I walk a road paved in torment,
if the tormented souls were thus made free?
I know not whether I’ve such heroic bones
to take that change and pay the entry fee.

Is virtue stuff from which heavens are made,
or is it yet another kind of dream.

POEM: Pleasure-Pain Principle Gone Awry

run to pleasure — run from pain
some call it the way to be sane
can you feel the wind in your hair?
lot of running — getting nowhere

you can’t catch happy — can’t flee sad
you’ll only find a passing fad
instead, reframe and remeasure
what is pain and what is pleasure

that’s where freedom lies

Rainy Day Haiku

in corn country,
the scent of rain often
outpaced the clouds

a slanting rain,
sounding machine-like
pounds the ground

with these mean rains,
my invite to outdoors
has been revoked

mossy mountain,
its flipside is dry grass –
yin to its yang

hanging droplets
on the fringe of fungus
drip in due time

POEM: Monsoon Blues

You won’t find the Monsoon Blues in the sky —

the sky – such as it is – a claustrophobic ceiling, clinging to the tops of tall bridges and buildings.

Nor will you find those Blues in the rain-swollen bodies of water —

bodies of water, murky in the absence of penetrating rays and churned with flood detritus.

Walls and billboards, painted blue, will be inflected [perhaps, infected] with gray — the gray that permeates all.

Don’t look for the Monsoon Blues, they’ll find you.

POEM: Fond of Monsters

I’m fond of monsters, modern & ancient,
but only monsters who know their nature.
It’s not the wild eyes, but those that’r vacant
that signal the most dire kind of danger.

I tracked one once across a snowy heath,
and when the winds did shift, it caught my scent.
It could’ve wheeled about, baring claws and teeth,
but it had a sniff and moved on – content.

Did I dare stalk the beast any further?
Was I being led into an ambush?
Did it seek concealment for my murder?
And then the break — a gasping air inrush

A sudden realization, I’d been duped,
and was pursuing myself in a loop.

POEM: Sympathetic Agonies

From the shore, I watched a wave roll
out from under a boat.
It tilted as it dropped trough-ward —
and bile rose in my throat.

And when she hit the rock bottom,
I felt my jaw’s tight clench
At the same time, a flutter from
my kidneys in mid-flinch.

By the time that craft had flooded,
I had no condolence left.
I dumbly watched the waving hands,
of feeling, now bereft.