Internet Interlude

The open window steals signals

off the router, sending my wireless

around the world—a Marconi trap

of internet foam, intricate bubbles—

steel-coated, roiling around graceless,

packets of synaptic solitude

with no binding tongue to connect.

Babel's confusion curse perfected,

self-created without the voice of God,

speaking the swirling sounds unheard

except to self, words of self, alone to self—

beyond the breath of angels leaving

private prayers known wholly to none.

Betting the Rain

Cloudy, with a chance—always a chance, setting

odds, like betting would make a difference thanks

to Pasquale’s wagering. Probable cause of today

happening: one hundred percent. You can bet on it

and win if some sucker would show up—dumb

enough to take your bet. They don’t so you pocket

the day along with the cash saved up for rain.

You’re too thin-skinned to ignore the weather

the way the dog does—and the birds. Scattered

showers drive you to cover, fearful of showering

not your choosing. Spoiled out of the elements,

you create your own, as if control makes you God.

The house isn’t the world and world not the house;

how can you ignore the door where wind calms?

Quantum Physics of Worry

You’d create worries out of dust mites

or pocket lint if God didn’t provide them.

Each breath awaits the inhaling of problems
that fill your frantic air with the energy

of the distraught.  Sisyphus had an easy time

with only a single task—the damned rock

upon an equally damned hill. That’s Hades—

this is earth, bound by the multiplier effect

of quantum physics and universal parallels

of an infinite number of worries that spin

threads through neurons of your brain

until all creation floods the synapse

with hopeless trials of control. Dark matter

doesn’t care.  Why strain the effort

when the mites and lint trust God?

In the Morning

Yawns widen the limits of tight-muscled night jaws

clenched against the confusion

of dreams peopled in unkempt memories

cascading out from their closets and storage bins.

Imagination has its way of turning chaos into light—

declaring the day good. You’re leery to trust

after years of promises broken

like the wine glass tipped off the table,

dangerous in its shards

eager to nip the soles of your feet.

Store your feet in the darkness of shoes.

Why should toes greet the light that spills

dreams out of God

and arranges them on the shelf—

private collectibles that whither

like a jumble of yesterday’s words?

Beyond Destiny

Yesterday closed its box with thudding dullness

that escaped the ears of another room; ears

caught the tumult of tomorrow, not knowing

the still-born traits of repetition—same old,

same old, the aged like to say, squawking out

memories of new-found wisdom, astounded

over the prophetic voice clutching throats

in the final clasping expressed before the second

day has passed away, the trail of grave clothes.

How we’d relive those shuttering days, so we say,

voicing lies the ancestors spoke when they

passed on mistakes for us to catch in pools

opened by the mutant twist of destiny

bearing the plan of God that lies a finger’s

width away from touch—a foretaste

of Zeno’s arrow that never hits the mark.

The eternal “almost” thuds tomorrow.

The Flood and theAlgorithmick Ark, Part III: the 3rd Letter

This is a continuation of the previous two blogs in which turning on the computer is discussed by way of a manual typewriter.

I type in the third letter of the password. The third letter. It sounds ominous like opening the seals of the apocalypse. It is a vowel but I won't tell you which one because then you would be that much closer to discovering my password and that password would open too much of my life. You would be able to read my emails and check the history of every cite I have peered into, and what should that reveal? What would my secret life show, if anything at all? Forays into pornography? Looking up how to make meth? Contact with the forces of darkness at hellandsatan.com, or does he have his own domain like satan@hell.hell? There are some, I am sure,w who would give Satan a web site, but not God. Satan is ever the handmaiden of technology and his evil plan is to ensnare us in his technological demise. After all, the first craftsman was Tubal-cain, the descendant of Cain, the first murder. What else needs be said to prove the satanic source of technological advancement. (Music came by way of Jubal, Tubal-cain's brother, but we need not go there.) No one is mentioned as inventing writing.

The computer screen has gone to sleep. One touch on the pad and I wake it up, a gentle touch like that to awaken an infant, a caress. Why don't we call swiping the screen caressing the screen? Why take a word that  carries the undertow of stealth and stealing. Why "swipe" unless something nefarious is going on? Words betray their intent if you listen closely enough. Words have their own lives and meanings so that when used loosely, more is given than the speaker intended. Swipe. Look at it. What is stolen and who is the sneak-thief, the cunning and underhanded thief who smiles and walks away with your wallet, leaving you thankful you have been stolen from? Swipe. I swipe card through the reader at the grocery store and the details of all my purchases have been stolen and stored away. Swipe. The computer knows everything you do. The internet, with its mawing chasm for information, its infinite storage systems knows all about you in ways that would have made the Stasi, the East German Secret Police marvel at how readily we give ourselves over to surveillance. Orwell's Big Brother had to use coercion and torture in a secret room. But not us. We embrace and love Big Brother without thinking. We sign up for membership to gather our "points." That's the magic word now: "points." Join and win "points." Win, as if you had entered a challenging contest, a test of strength or skill and you win; you best them all. You get the gold medal. Get more points by going online and filling in their survey. The marketing department tracks every motion we make, and we, in all innocence, go along not realizing we've not won but lost. Everything known about us is available to the highest bidder.

The Flood and the Algorithmic Ark, Part II

This is a continuation of the previous blog.

The second letter of the password.  I am that much closer to being dissolved, that much closer to annihilation that comes with the absorption of more data, more information than I could possibly use. Data about international and local politics, or about wars in distant countries that I can do nothing about. Why do I follow the news when I can make no difference? I write no policy. I am utterly powerless to do anything. I am like a father standing by the hospital bed of a dying daughter, unable to do anything except feel the powerlessness that drains hope. The knees crumple to prayer that God would make a special case from among the millions of dying children in the world and stop natural progression, turning death's hand from this child.

I cry for peace. Kyrie, kyrie eleison. Send peace, O Lord. Peace in our time, please send us. Amen