isolate in a small place,
the woman
watches the world pass (framed
by the water-spotted window,
the smoke-stained curtains):
desiring, yet fearing

the fancied touch, the dream-held

so many advances refused! (though,
to be honest, often
she desired to answer,
yet could not…)
strange visions, unsayable thoughts
tongue numbed, lip
glued to lip…


o, and if only
for a way away, a path beyond…

still, lonely and afraid
she surveys
the alien, hostile world, safe
behind her window.

May 8, 2018 at 12:49 pm 1 comment



waiting for Zarathustra, i
encounter only
illusive visions of a sometime,
never world.

May 6, 2018 at 6:48 pm Leave a comment

Forgotten Things


Only ONE example.  Isaac Aasimov, the “I, Robot” series.  Virtual assistants abound–from “A” to “Z” [elazny].  In fact, I seem to remember one of the Vance novels even had one.


The point is that assistants basically exist to cut down on traffic.  Unfortunately, that means a process of exclusion of data, and some of the data that is cut is meaningful. (“Infinite merely means one more than you can count.”)


At some point the process is irretrievably damaged.  [Any process involving value.]



April 27, 2018 at 12:35 pm Leave a comment

VA and its invisibility


My first reaction to this was “How little that person knows the VA”.  By the end of it, I realized how much ignorance that betrays–on my part for not considering that lack of knowledge might  be systemic, on a social basis because the VA has taken steps to prevent unwelcome/unexpected monitoring.

Any social structure depends upon stability, most of all provided by the infrastructure, which isn’t elected and goes by its own criteria.  This provides something most easily termed inertia.

I am not prepared at this moment to delve into my experience with the VA.  I suspect that’s upcoming.  If you have an opinion, let me know whether or not I should just post it to a blog, or withhold it from that process–assuming that I have the 5 years and six months at least–and seek publication.

It’s prompted by two things.  The first is what amounts to a Theory of Relativity (Modal Philosophy/Perspectival Nature of Reality) that I probably do need to disseminate. [There is an odd chain of logic in my poetry that tends to be about one’s perception of reality.]  The second is the limited time.  It’s the only method I can think of to explain at the same time as presenting it.  Oddly enough, the experiments have been done.


If you have a reaction–get it out quickly or not, let me know; and of course if you have no opinion…


April 26, 2018 at 1:04 pm Leave a comment

To write for its own sake still

I doubt I have enough time left (and perhaps never acquired the skill) to attempt publication.  If it’s important this will do.


“Publication is not the business of poets.”

What? Then what is?”

[short silence ended with a sigh]

“Writing poetry.”


The validity of the concept that meaning can only be acquired via the extended group (with the automatic benefit of getting ‘items of value’ [money = item(s) of value.  That remains to be seen.

April 24, 2018 at 2:47 pm Leave a comment



pausing at
the Hill of Skulls,
we left three flowers. (somewhere
near, rubbish burned; and a homeless mongrel
scratched at the earth)

but there was
(i am not sure
i expected any) no answer, and
after a moment
we merely walked away.

that Hill
was merely dead,
a blasted place, choked
with weeds and rubbish, and He

(i saw, to be honest,
no record of His passage)
was not there.
(my mouth was dry.)

pausing at the
Hill of Skulls, i think,
i left my soul.


Same summer.  Nikos Kazantzakis.

April 24, 2018 at 2:35 pm Leave a comment




old poet, you
who strive to teach me, i
can tell you miss
your classes! your scraps

of tattered accomplishments, clipped
and collected, suggest
your dreams’ remnants, your
need for some, for any

audience, seeking
for response’s hint, some
answer’s faint echo
or intimation…

and you have known too many
rejections (“no, not
quite that, it does not

suit our needs just now”),
have known too many
listeners, displaying
patience far too clearly.

old poet, with
your quatrained verse
and cliched line, your
failing, trembling voice suggests

your need, your shame half-hidden
(you defend, i think,
too much, at too great
length–to no attack).

and, having displayed
your loneliness like some hidden,
shyly revealed (and ugly)
wound, you slowly fold
your achievements’ scraps
into your venerable, time-marked
briefcase and slowly, awkwardly walk
(impeded by your aching joints)

away, awaiting only
another, similar call…packing away, too,
that loneliness, like some
heavy, nearly unbearable burden.


Written in the summer of the year I turned 15.

April 24, 2018 at 2:25 pm Leave a comment

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