This infernal machine
Tracking my every move
Every interest, every word to every friend or foe
A marvel, really
A piece of glass that responds to my touch
Miniscule screws, Microprocessors, radio waves
Instant access to anyone! to anything known!
From a cellar, a car, the woods!
no wonder we sacrifice so much,
Dazzled as we are by it’s wonders.
Intoxicated by it’s deceptions.
A thought experiment:
Premise: Alone in nature with nothing.
Question: how long will it take to develop enough tech to send an email?
Answer: well, you’d have to get enough of a food supply that you survive, then get that efficient enough that you have time to engage in mining, smelting copper, build a turbine to make electr…
Me: a month. I can do it within a month, tops. Nowhere in the world am I so remote that I wouldn’t be able to find a human, kill them, take their phone and send the email.
I am a house with hidden rooms in attic and cellar
Harboring fugitives from love. Middle class demons these
Rather somewhat tame, but I struggle with them just the same
Pry up the floorboards, chase them from the cupboards
Such miscreants are not welcome
The idea of tame middle-class demons is from Leonard Cohen, ‘you want it darker’ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0nmHymgM7Y&list=PL097ahHobU6utUfk1yweu9IQxzVyW_9h3&index=7
So that is the state of things now, is it?
You called me. You wanted me to go.
But did you ask me? No.
Did you, knowing me, tell me why
How it would work for me, specifically?
No. You could have, you know.
Bring up my relationship with my father
Speak in your lovingway your knowingway
Of my worry, my fear, my helplessness, there
And speak personally to me, dear.
But no, you sounded like Hemingway
On a used car lot, pushing, pitching.
It’s not that you had a bad intention
But you could tell it wouldn’t work
And you laid it on me, anyway.
By this betrayal, you cemented
Not only my coming saudade for my dad
But made some for yourself as well
For the prompt at Real Toads, and also shared for Open Link Night in the ‘pub
Ye be a detective of sorts
With yer readin
Sifting through words
But what gold do you find there
In those thin poetic lines?
None of that will pay yor passage
It’s only there in your mind.
I’ll take my klews from
Yellowbeard’s treasure map
With real gold I’ll buy me rum
And on the swell, take me nap
The midweek motif is evidence, or clues, over at Poets United
And it’s also Talk Like A Pirate day, one of the chief festivals of Pastafarianism. Yay! Yellowbeard is a pirate movie by Monty Python and Cheech and Chong.
If I resist anything
It is the political circus
Or the riptide of popular outrage
That’s wants only to suck me
Away from myself, under the
Banner of some illusory cause.
I will break bread with my enemy.
I will lie down with wolves
And lambs both. I will eat, and
One day, be eaten.
I will ride on waves of joy
And anguish equally detached.
But mostly, I will Love
Before I ope my lip,
Ere one more word slips
Out, staining paper or
Let silence sit
To fill that pulpit
Alone is enough.
I am nothing but breath
Under moist velvet night air
Vulnerable, open, laid bare
Wondering why they care
X marks the spot, if you dare
You do, you kiss my ear
Zephyr wind will pay the fare