Posts tagged ‘Progressive’

August 26, 2017

AI will figure it out for us! Yay!

i am ready for the killer robots now,
i want them to come faster, posthaste.
because robots don’t do politics,
they just act and that’s it.

there is no discerning nothing to them, affirmative.
in times like this, i think antiindividualthoughters
would be the ones to really worry;
not me tho, the ones with big group ideas.

b/c ai doesn’t care about feels-sentiment,
only what you are, what and where, now.
not what you want to be or what you believe.
ai doesn’t fret about your god(s), her rules,

unless you program them to and such.
preference and seems take a backseat.
like children they are honest.
like surgeons they are exact.

like weapons we should be concerned.
like counterprotesters they come in “peace”.
i think that scares people tho;
stop violence on “both sides” tell the robot,

probably a robot won’t care for the names
for the intentions, for the allegiances, or the Soros monies–
sees something: pew pew pew, kaboom, stillness… robots
i am sort of worried about ai, and not,

but then again not really so much
i am only human-kind, kind of flawed, will go when to ash.
i can only assume what will be our “future”,
i can only just breath and see and be and me.

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July 27, 2015

Twin Cities Poets and Publications

The only change they want
is the change they make,

even if it’s the same.

July 20, 2015

High Heat Sunday

Turning day to night as a light switch in a room
had shadows evaporating into themselves,
outlines seen were hot and sticky
for the summer humidity and sharp shine.
A black car sheen stood burning
in an open lot as a dead mouse
in grey fur swelled and swarmed with flies.
The sweet cloy of trash hit nostrils
like a left hook of some welterweight
sweating hard, pulling in the ring.
Plastic garbage bags expanded
in the sweltering heat of midday July
becoming tight as the skin of a drum.
Few cotton clouds cast no guard in
vast rich nitrogen blue skyscapes,
going on, what fast changed above.
Seems Sunday was properly labeled for
this weather; there was tan leather,
blue jeans, bright bandanas, and cold beer.
It was unlike any other beautiful day.

July 14, 2015

Journey

Here,
not there,
you are—

look how
you’ve come,
so far.

June 19, 2015

A Moment Mid-Commute

Slowing my advance
the smell of fresh dew
on bending grass,
deeply rich, as pubic loin,
naturally beaded,
morning fruit,
coming up into me.

Passing chance is a pedestrian
at another drink,
to sup, to taste—to figure:
the luck.

Beyond what affords
the wires and cords,
the libations of vibrations—in pocket and lapel;
consorts of sorts:
eyes to see to tell,
caught in a room, in a shell.

Here it is running between sharp teeth,
between punch in and punch out,
the texture expands on the tip of tense tongue,
to drown the drain
in the welcome back of a dry desert throat,
where we once spoke.

Yesterday’s sun had taken all proof
of what there was to own:
the house, the car, the student loans, the mobile phone.

Every drop of hydration
was taken from placement.

And then that orb went away
with the dying day,
to blackest night,
to come back and drop what it lacked,
to give what it had taken away.

These globules,
these droplets of life,
here on fine grass, stay,
for all to gleam as they pass.

Seeing yard for a blade.
Seeing hours for a wait.
Bearing witness to its presence,
to this small existence, to little menace.

Taken its smell,
dew on these forms,
forms on this ball,
lit up by yellow orb,
spinning, rolling, coming down,
into finite points,
magnified and reflected,
encapsulating each particle universal,
directly into you.

A most minute sense,
and worldly.

To think,
it was almost unbearable
to enter that building
on this day.

June 16, 2015

Remember?

In the cistern of my mind
live water’s beckon thought;
is it the past or a dream—
the difference, I can’t tell.

June 9, 2015

Pro Tips for Planning your Perfect Life

“If you can’t please yourself, who can?” -Ma

In the morning I start planning,
by the time I am done it is mid-afternoon.
I find that I have all things figured out,
in finding that happiness is without.
When I have specific plans completed,
seen through to fruition, I can only hope for one thing:
that I still feel as good as I do when I just open my eyes,
young, in love, and surrounded by it-
when I just walk outside—lost and uncaring,
when I do the first thing that comes to mind, even today,
now, to escape.
I hope to still feel as good as I do right now,
with no excess in what I have about me, and there, no excuses,
because none of those institutions will change anything, ever.
Not one. They only complicate and muck up straightforward.
Fuck plans. It is how you feel when you feel you in the end.
I hope to feel as good as I do when I wake up
in the morning, before I start planning.

June 8, 2015

On Eighth Crow Wing Lake…

a million worlds balanced atop globules
of settled wake and rain, dancing on strung-up
green leathered water lilies in rolling waves.

These beaded reflections, moving,
were a million of you and a million of me;

crystals bouncing with electric light, cosmos lithe,
changing, above tadpole, water beetle, and autumn’s fallen leaves.

***

No question these microcosms stand in wait,
bobbing on a clear lake,
on each movement thrown within,

contemplating nothing—save for seen,
by those who pass in man-powered vessels,
just a moment in time, taking what they can.

***

Seagulls carried shadows
above their lives on a lake.

Here, undulating up and down,
and many worlds away.

June 3, 2015

Moving Wood in West Lakeland

Wood laid in a pile,
brought down in the days before;
years of life soon ash.

March 4, 2015

View from a Minneapolis Coffeehouse (human zoo)

1
Sitting an hour between classes seemed as days elapsed,
at a Washington Avenue coffeehouse table,
where tall transparent windows
beamed reflective light,
beaconing inquisition: “just look outside”.

2
Taking the hint, lazy eyes gazed to witness a fashion of layers,
dark shades of boots, and clench-fisted gloves,
blankly moving full-through their owner’s stepping saunter;

blurred these creatures came going along the sidewalk’s edge,
tracking herds in asymmetrical circles,
in late-winter’s dressings—
they gave a bob and weave dance,
contrasting against the
silhouetted patrons standing inside in line, motionless.

3
A cigarette had fallen central to the commotion,
and became squashed-to on the wet ground—
accordion-like, a thin pale smoke drifted above and into the street air,
between stoplights and cars,
vanishing with exhaust fumes
and puffed exhalation plumes of each passing pedestrian.

4
Cold feet, slick rubber wheels, and the Green Line’s steel
came around loud moving through,
bounding over the dotted masses of miniature speckled glaciers,
emitting a cacophony of moans, shrieks and squeals
one’s ears could not avoid, even within shut doors.

5
On a stage there stood warm vessels waiting
for huddles of hypothermic;
metro transit arrived late near soon to be ice-melt
and future city gutter streams.

6
I sat sipping hot sepia
with this view, with this wildlife,
wondering how the animals at the zoo
felt about the
children outside
who poked and smudged at their glass view.

Fin

***
Another thought:
June: It seems so far away, I wish it were today.