There will, I am certain, come a day when I will need to do nothing. My computer and my apps will know what I want, will obtain it without asking, will expect my thanks when it arrives, even if they are incapable of understanding what thank you means in a human world. They already plague me with offers and suggestions, if I liked that or even looked at it, I must like this. And they do it with a certainty that only an algorithm can possess. They know me, or so they are programmed, for they cannot think, and they cannot begin to imagine how fickle I can be, or what that term even means. But I know Jeff Bezos won’t give up without a fight. At least if there are a few more billion dollars to be made.
He had long since decided that language was impossible, the English language in particular. He had acquired all manner of dictionaries, and had searched the web, using it as a reverse dictionary. But all too often the language came up short. Words at best approximated what he meant, what he saw, but to get even close, he needed to string adverbs and adjectives to his nouns and verbs until he had an ungodly mess. He knew the solution and set out to implement it. As time went on, he filled notebook after notebook, flash drive after flashdrive (redudency was a virtue in this case, he knew) with the new words. And he was finally satisfied, like Carroll’s Humpty Dumpty. For now when he used a word, it meant exactly what he wished it to because he created the word.
The meaning is simple,
a data point here,
pixels always moving,
an avatar to you,
I have erased
you from memory.
It is a strange feeling to discover that you
have been made a liar by your own DNA.
For years I was Jewish to the core, half
at least Sephardic, Portuguese, and that
not merely extracted but fully blooded.
My diet at Passover expanded greatly,
no longer dictated by Northerners who
easily banned that which they did not grow.
But inquisitiveness got the better of me,
and I learned, and disbelieved, that only
half of me was Jewish, half a polygot
of other faiths, no Sephardic in sight.
It wasn’t as painful as you might imagine,
for I had given up my Judaism well
before the discovery, so what was lost
was no longer mine by claim or right.
It is strange feeling to discover that you
have been made a whole person by your DNA.
With the stroke of a pen,
they enabled me to write the story,
gave a framework on which
I could hang all manner
of dreams and assumptions,
inviting a search I never
quite got around to making.
I wandered the beaches
of Estoril in my dreams,
stalked the avenues of Lisbon,
looking for a familiar face,
but found only ghosts.
With the stroke of a swab
inside my cheek, a vial
of saliva mailed, the story
came apart, and a new story
slowly unfolded, gone forever
was Iberia, replaced by Scotland
and Ireland, Wales, Norway
and Germany, and my dreams
were filled with the music
of the bodhran and Highland pipes.
Even a cat knows when the screen is on Zoom, you sit and wait. Or stick your head in the picture so all can acknowledge your presence. Either works, and you know patience is not a virtue, but at times a necessity. You are a cat, after all. Patience is for dogs, poor beasts, having to be walked regularly. There is no freedom being a dog, and when they call you bad, that day is shot for you and you slink off. But cats must sometimes be patient when they are on Zoom, but it gives you time to plot your revenge, which the humans will never expect, but always soon enough forgive.
At least some Chinese manufacturers
have seemingly grown tired of our
endless mockery of their instructions.
No longer do they tell me “please to be
inserting the extended aspect
of part A into part B in the slotted area.”
Now they give me wordless instructions,
a series of pictures with lettered parts
which seems easier until, after
unpacking the many pieces, laying them
out on th workspace I discover
that either I am short one or more screws
or worse still, but more likely, when I begin
I will discover that several of the part
labels are lying in the bottom of the empty box.
He should have known
that the day was doomed
from the moment he woke
to see his alarm clock in pieces
on the floor by his bed, the cat
grinning at him from the place
where the clock had always sat.
Finally arriving at the office,
he was no sooner at his desk
when the fire alarm bell rang.
Within moments of reentering
after the all clear, it rang again,
and his own, very private
Chinese fire drill was under way.
The day calmed until, after lunch,
the Regional Manager arrived,
gathered everyone at the great
round conference table, and
demanded to know who
had made a simple error,
and watched as the inevitable
circular firing squad began.
There is an art
to creating a mix tape,
more so to day, when
tape is usually only
found in museums
and antique stores.
Then you chose carefully
aware of the sonics,
aware of the limits on time,
weaving a musical tapestry.
You can do a mix CD
but everyone knows
that with tape you listened
all the way through,
for fast forward was only
for getting to the end
of the cassette to play
the B-side, and CD’s
have no B sides to play.
For those who cannot see the picture above, please imagine this text is the most hated font of all time*:
There are certain sins
a poet learns never to commit,
whether by teaching or
simply bad experience.
Poetic sins come in many
shapes and sizes, grammatical,
or just about any -al you choose.
Bad rhyme is a minefield, unable
to know slant from abject miss,
forced form a train wreck with you
at the controls, blinded by ambition.
But the cardinal sin, the one
for which there can never be
any excuse, mortal to a poem, is
to think you can use this font.
*comic sans, of course.