Hands

 Hands

It is easier for me to write
By hand.
More difficult to type...
Has always been.
But that is easier for others to read,
What I type than what I write.

But writing comes from my hand.
Yes, from the hand opposite my heart.
But, still a more unified motion.
More than fingers poking it out
Individually.

Tokens:
In to or out of, a vector space
Or, in my hand
At the metro stop
Both are useful
But always a leveling down
To a common
More simple
Denominator

A square of code
In black and white
Is not as consistent
Or reliable
As a plastic penny
(A possible plectrum)
In my hand

Pound's Cantos:
They are also impressive
But I can't always (or ever)
Grasp them in my mind's hand.

Our hands
As a whole
Maybe our first unique tools...
(That opposable thumb!)

What do we lose
When we leave them behind?
For digits
a hand divided
And then...
As digits
Only in silicone?

And where is the heart in that?

Words

Words

When words pass through lips

All too often--

And without a thought--

Meanings soften.

Like the unkept soles

Of shoes well used,

The words get worn thin:

Battered and bruised.

Rubbed: run through fingers.

Coins lose faces,

Becoming smooth, thin...

Useless tokens.

Words pushed out in posts...

Shared thoughtlessly,

Or generated...

By little chips,

Just as thoughtlessly.

Nothing of substance

Or importance 

Comes into being 

When words...

    Lack thought 

    Lack thickness 

    Lack their markings

    Lack weight and meaning 

Fake

Fake

When you "Fake it

'till you make it"

You have in fact,

Broken it.

It is hollow;

You are shallow.

They have been fooled

By the show.

When they are fools,

The system fails.

You have undone 

The prize you 'won.'

Better to fail...

Then fail better.

Become better...

To break the scale. 

Creating Consciousness

Creating Consciousness 

The thinness  of concepts

When things are compressed

To be so practical

And ready to be used. 

To reach a short term goal, 

This is effective.

Narrow path, close target: 

Subjective, objective. 

Applaud that one small step:

A leap for mankind. 

With this method, we can

Recreate our own mind. 

We made it to the moon

On Newton's shoulders. 

His equations work well

To leap between boulders. 

But blackholes bend his mind;

His fine equations

Can't account for it all. 

Quarks, chaos: evasions. 

A unified theory

Never came about. 

What was to be certain

Is now clouded with doubt. 

So if the physical 

Can't be tied up neat, 

How can our consciousness 

Be a simple feat?

Reunion

Reunion 

We met in intense times;

Our lives and minds so open.

We found our souls had shared rhymes:

Spoken and unspoken.

They resonated like chimes.

In me, so much desire

To be near, with and like you.

With your power to inspire...

Seeing, through you, what's true.

Keeping me out of the mire.

Our paths simply diverged,

By plans getting diverted.

Not purposefully divided.

No wrongs or offences

That needed to be righted.

Half our lives have since passed 

Since we last sat face to face. 

Keeping touch 'cross time and space.

Knowing so much has changed,

I still recognized your face.

Back in, quickly folded 

What time had telescoped out.

The bonds our souls had molded,

Held against time and doubt,

As so much else eroded.

Stories told many times--

But never before to you--

That had lost their shine and rhymes,

Became new, through and through 

And picked up hope from old times.

Long overdue for sure,

This simple, short reunion

(Like a holy communion)

Will help me to endure.

A Real Dream

 A Real Dream

My dreams:
A mere extension
Of my days’
Drudgery and commotion

No rest
From the wickedness
This vortex
Of frantic meaninglessness

The means
Justify the means
On and on
With no ends to rest upon

Not to dream
In a dark, deep rest
Would be
A wish come true, a real dream

Demythifying

 Demythifying

The boulder, perched on its slope

No one around, no one there

No body to push it up

Not a soul to keep it there

There's nothing to give us

Inspiration or hope

Heavens aren't all that's empty

Our stories have gaping holes

Torn open by the critics

As they purify our souls

Giving next to nothing

While they destroy plenty

Song of an Old Man

 Song of an Old Man

I am not jealous of youth.

Having been there, I miss it.

But having been through it,

I wouldn't trade age for youth.

This being old is easy.

Youth was far too chaotic.

Its passion, hope: despotic.

Now, giving up is easy.

Age has nothing, wants nothing.

But this age: has... wants it all. 

Flying before it can crawl. 

Easily, I do nothing. 

I am not jealous of youth.

Being old is easier.

The world these days is manic.

Being old makes it easier.

The World of Wolfram, And a Luddite's Response

The World of Wolfram, And a Luddite's Response 

Our minds are just like the clouds. 

They both calculate. 

They just computate.

They input data. 

They output data.

In-between, just a machine. 

Just machine after machine.

Data and data.

Nature: mere machine.

What bad poetry!

What a bad story!

A stillborn mythology....

Impoverished humanity.

But those who control it,

Tell us that is the world

That we inhabit.

More comfort than ever...

Protected from weather...

Better health...

More wealth... 

A zero sum gain:

Much more pleasure,

And less pain.

What humanity?

What reality?

What vanity!

What sterility!

Give me poetry!

Or insanity?

It's life I desire...

Throw the machines

Into the fire.

Inspired by:

"What does the human brain do? A brain receives certain input, it computes things, it causes certain actions to happen, it generates a certain output. Like the weather. All sorts of systems are, effectively, doing computations--whether it's a brain or, say, a cloud responding to its thermal environment.

We can argue that our brains are doing vastly more sophisticated computations than those in the atmosphere. But it turns out that there's a broad equivalence between the kinds of computations that different kinds of systems do. This renders the question of the human condition somewhat poignant, because it seems we're not as special as we thought. There are all those different systems of nature that are pretty much equivalent, in terms of their computational capabilities."

-- Stephen Wolfram from his essay Artificial Intelligence and the Future of Civilization in the book Possible Minds 

If We Hide...

If We Hide...

On the verge of war,
The world has never been so tense.
On the verge of war,
Just looking for pretense.

Up and down, turned 'round,
Looking for the right angle.
Turn the grid around,
Putting logic in a tangle.

What chance can we take,
In this zero sum game?
What chaos can we make,
And warm ourselves by its flame.

No thought for the cost.
It's only about the gain.
If we hide what's lost...
They will ignore all the pain.

The Creator's Great Crime

The Creator's Great Crime

In dreams, what may come?
Anything, because
In sleep, like in death,
We are unbounded
And have infinite breadth.

We are free from the day,
And its cares, brought to light.
And free from the night's darkness,
That hides, and makes mystery.
We are freed from weakness.

Awake, we are boxed.
We are limited:
Out bodies limit,
Our vision limits.
Always stuck within it.

It's our reality:
To be boxed, but be free;
To be able to be,
Only one at a time.
It's creation's great crime.

Help Them See

 Help Them See

When you tell someone young
Not to change
You don't mean to do it
But you limit their range

"Stay true to your own self"
Has a ring
It might wrap them too tight
And carry a sharp sting

Guiding is good
Pushing is positive
Regret is learning
Growing is cooperative

Make a change
Take the chance
Life's not a war
Life is a dance

Holding a bit too tight
Makes it slip
You have to be in it
Not too stiff, not too hip

We can never know just
What they see
You know what you know
You have to let be what will be

So let it be, let it be
Let them be, but help them see
What could go wrong
What could go right
Help them see
The best of what can be

The Creep...

 The Creep...

It's the creep of concepts--
That are mere assumptions--
Into everyday life
Where they are compunctions
And foundations of life
That we see the onset
Of so many problems

Or so uncle Freud would say,
But I see it this way:

It's the creep of concepts--
Scientists' mere assumptions--
Into everyday life
Where they are compulsions
And foundations of life
That we see the onset
Of so many problems