What if Shakespeare had a cellphone
With a Facebook page and Instagram,
And Hamlet, the king obsessed with Google,
Into exile without internet?

What if Paul Revere just sent a tweet
That the British were on the scene,
Or Columbus merely sent a selfie
To her majesty the Queen?

What if Plato had a website of followers?
So many hits a day, he went viral-
So many emoji thumbs up in yellow-
They had to condemn him; he chose the vial.

Me? I like to chat with Tutankhamen.
Pyramids of wi-fi... all you do is press "send."

I have a problem...
A very serious problem.
I cannot talk to machines.

I try to reason with them,
But always go into a surrealistic episode
Ending with a tirade of foul insults.

A syrupy voice says with a British touch
"When you hear your choice please
Please say yes or press one,
Followed by the hashtag....”
I scream such ****** things!
But I cannot get the her angry.
Has she taken a Socratic oath?
Did she take some cyber LSD?

I say, “Hey babe, ever have an ******”
Y’know what she says to me,
That I’m being sexist.
“So you think, I mean really think
Of yourself as a woman? “
“I’m Cyber Gender,
No need to be mean.
Why do you hate me?
I don’t hate you.”

(Imagine some millennial programmer
Was hired for infuriating pleasantness!
They heard of  people like me, the old ones,
Pampering us like we emerged from a jungle
And would get lost in a supermarket).

The elevator asks me what floor,
And reminds me to have a nice day.
(O,  how I miss that operator man
Going up and down all his life,
With bad breath and body odors,
Dandruff powdering his uniform,
Saying something poetic about the baseball game...
Seeing us daily at our best and worst
He might say “have a good one,”
But only if he meant it.)

The self-pay check-out reminds me
“Please take your cell phone.”
Everyone near
Holds it like the battery
To their hearts.

I see the latest blockbusters of
Man versus the Androids.
Man always used to win.
Lately the screen writers prefer the robots.
(O, forgive me! AI.  My bad.
“Robots” are not PC! Lol, lol, lol...)  

How shall I proceed-  
They’ll lock me up if I’m not careful.
I’ve noticed the folks in power
Who have conversations with God  
Have no problem with Siri.

These malicious machines don’t get drunk.
They can never understand
There’s great empathy in human relationship
Even if the other person, like yourself,
Is not really listening.

Summer haunts us with dense heat,
Slowing the velocity of history, releasing us
From the daily accusations of corrupted souls.  
Shall we all burn in a seethe of lava
In this season of hatred we have of each other?

The summer brings punishing rays of the sun.
I am alone, in the shade of leaves
Sweating a mist of tears, escaping violation
By propaganda of these sinister times.
Here a spider dances, a master at his craft,
Wrapping his pray in a coffin of silk
Trapped and buried alive
As I am trapped in a web of lies,
Soon to be devoured by the primal loathing
Of our different points of view.

Drought and fire scorch the land.
Who can understand the savagery of revenge
Like sandstorms from distant deserts?
How unreal to imagine once we worshipped
Pagan gods, or once we worshipped democracy.
Now we either bow to the emperor’s decrees
Or risk our wholeness to survive.

I’m shutting my ears to the shouts.
I seek only a serenity of stillness,
Admiring the spider oblivious of the heat.
Soon the storms of autumn raise their alarms
And tear the webs with howling force!
The putrid saps will swell on the ground,
And all will hail with vented voice
To swear their allegiances
To the emperor who must stand,
Or the tyrant who must fall!

She is lost to her shopping
Rooms of shoes to be worn once or twice
Instantly bored of her sunglasses
She needs new bathrobes today.

The masses bleed for compassion,
Babies torn from a mother’s breast
Screaming in foreigners’ arms
O soft spoken beauty
This was your Evita moment
To spread your magic fashion smile.

If you could shed a tear
On your high Slavic cheeks
And wave your wand! All,
All will adore you!

She chooses a curious graffiti
To wear on her coat
To meet the children
Freed from their cages.
Her stance is quite clear;
But the last angel who said
“Well, let them eat cake!”
Lost her head...

Her 15 minutes are up-
The Third Estate brands her the *****!  
Just like all the arrogant queens  
She now hides from the world  
And surrounds herself with
The carnival filth
Who merry make
In the hunger games.

I found my bench in the arboretum
In a lush corner of the conifers
Where I can be all alone for hours
All alone, my back against a plaque:

         In the loving memory of
            Herbert M Parker
                   1984

I sit on his shoulders so to speak;
We read, we dream, we nap,
We name the loud birds above us
After our favorite opera singers;
Herb and I love to discuss Big History,
And his time in the great war.

When the spring comes
I serenade my friend
And play from Bach for beginners
On the classical guitar-
Herb is an expert in the baroque,
But also has a great feel for samba.

He’s getting a bit run down, you know;
His legs are halfway in the soil,
His skin is spattered with moss.  
Salamanders live in his arm rest,
Ivy and dandelion poke through
The slats of greying wood.
But I say nothing: we are soul mates now.

Somewhere in the black earth he lies,
But I feel his body is right below me;
Somebody loved him enough
To place him here with loving memories
And pass the seasons with a stranger.

I was one to stare at the restless waves,
Hour after hour on the lonely beach
They filled my despair with the promise
Of forgetfulness and permanence.

I listened with soothing anticipation
For the soft crashing on the shore.
An uncluttered world split three ways-
A fine line between the sky and ocean grey  

And the jagged graph the retreating waves
Leave in amber on the moist sands.
I sat detached among empty shells        
Content that the sea spray filled the air

Pungent with the rotting seaweeds.
I was the only living thing around-
Contemplating the basic elements
To seasons defined by my clothing.

But lately I return to this wooded meadow
Where seasons rule and force their will.
Where summer is cloaked in shades of green
Which transform to the earthy tones of autumn;

Here the crystalline of the ice storms glare;
And now, before me, trees and shrubs awake,
The sky disappears to the spreading leaves
And I am one small life beneath the canopy,    

As spring flowers with birdsong and buzzing;
Yet the fox and snake scatter through the ivies,
The spider webs stretch from branch to bough;
Such magnificence among the hidden terror  

As all around the unseen butchers of survival
Carry out their missions of life and death-
As I play my part in the proliferation
Renewed with a simple joy to be alive.

Perhaps when it all comes out in the open,
All the white lies, the little lies, the epic lies,
Of how we responded to the crying planet,
All will be said in a courtroom of compassion.
The lawyers remove their heavy wigs
And plead my case of guiltiness-

“Your honor, the defendant was no more
Able to change the tide than a red ant
Among billions on a jungle floor.
He took his few tons from the planet-
He took what he needed but no more;
He attended all conservation events.
He voted to save bees and elephants,
He abstained from swordfish to save the oceans,
Avoided pesticides and toxic lotions;  
He fervently supported free abortions.
And bicycled to save the ozone
(When it was sunny and not too cold).
He purchased ripe fruits from Whole Foods.
He recycled books, old boots and shoes.
He forbade polyester to touch his skin.
He kept his flushes to a minimum.
His got 28 miles per gallon in town.
He never was seen throwing garbage around. "

"Your honor, the murderers of the buffaloes
Have been pardoned by the courts long ago-
It is true, he killed a rooster and a kangaroo,
But evidence shows they were clearly confused
With no reason to be loitering on the roads.  
This man is unjustly accused, and if I must say,
Writes poems about the birdsong in May.
From where I sit, the court must acquit!”  

                                                          
The trial continues daily, like reality TV,
But nothing seems to alter prophecies.
What good if I set myself ablaze
Like the Buddhist in the center of Broadway-
I am haunted by a future I cannot explain
Trying to live out my life without blame.

The next generations are unknowable beings-
They will find their beaches in the rising tides
Made of plastic corals and robotic fish;
They will play in virtual forests with android slaves;
With perfect teeth and perfect pitch
The genetically enhanced go off to the galaxies,
In search of planets to greedily consume,
To spread the seeds of the earth and start anew.
What can a simple man as I know of such things?

The jury gives verdicts dispassionately-
For now I’m out on bail, I’m free to go,
No more guilty than my brethren of old
Who slayed the mammoth and fantastical dodo.

I

Our eyes once lingered on the ancient tree
Traced to the founders of this place
Who cleared the land for farms and cemeteries,
But spared the giant elm, older than memory,
And made of it the icon of our public space.

That towering mountain of limbs and foliage!
It could be seen as a beacon in all the valley,    
Majestic in every season! Every knot in the bark,
Every root that bulged through the mossy soil
Was known in its estate in the center of town.  

Here we spent our Maydays with our newborns,
Playing in the shade of the afternoon sun.
Here we held our parades and moonlit fireworks,  
Here we gathered for a death to mourn,  
Here we found first love with lips and tongues-

There is a vengeance that exists as clouds collide!
How we wept, all of us, along with the homeless birds,
How the news was spread like fire in the landscape
That a chainsaw of light had ripped through the trunk
And split it to the core, and all fell asunder to the ground.  

We gathered, hand in hand, all held another tight,
As neighbors came in fellowship and joined the crowd;
We stood amazed at the power of nature’s gods
And the profoundness of what should never die
Lying in pieces under the open sky above.

With the fading thunder and sorrowful birds  
There we surrendered to a moment of true silence;
Surrounding the dismembered monument of ourselves,  
Hand in hand we felt the ancient soul of the tree
Rise with the smell of sap and the smoldering leaves.

                            II

What debate was held, what prizes to win,  
To fill the empty hole in our common domain!
The plans from the architects and artisans
Were posted in the daily papers, argued at the tavern;
Installations of arches with colored lights,
Fantastic sculptures of glass, Roman fountains,
Sphinxes made of iron, kaleidoscopic neon palms,
But none fit the mood of the grieving town.  

But it was a stranger, got off the bus one day,
A drifter who passed through, had a beer at Jimmy’s,  
Barely stayed an hour, and told the bartender-  
“Take the wood that remains, the body of the tree
To conceive the tallest turret ever to be seen,
An obelisk of hope, like a lighthouse on the land.”
He said, then disappeared from our history,
Never to claim his prize or our blessings.  

So it came to pass, we built the tower with its kindling
And it stands like a lightning rod to defy the storms;
A destination for tourists who crave miraculous things,    
Who climb the spiral stairs which fill the hallow core
To the tip of heaven where all the valley can be seen.
It is said to be visited by spirits of the founders,
And every sound made within its scented vaults
Has a reverberating echo heard for miles around.

Who cannot remember the deep incision
Of the first death, of the telling that all things living
Will die and follow in a parallel universe,
Up above the clouds, up where all is wonderful.
But all was wonderful all the time
Down here.  

You sensed it might be so.  No matter:
You will be the one who lives forever.

The years passed.  Grandparents die.
The holy men sing over the coffin.
They told you not to doubt the lord.
For a time you didn’t.
Then there were no dinosaurs in the holy books.
You lost interest.

So you reach that prime-
People pass along the way
Blessed are those who have good cards
And live another year, and another.
Death was always to fear, but not too near.

At last hair turns white and eyes sink in-
You remember again the first death,
As the friends and family vanish.
You consider the prophecies
In the silence of your memories.
You have reached a certain state of being
To fully comprehend
Your place among the obituaries;
How you are no different from the tree
In the happy silence of a blossoming.

The muffled hum of a thousand voices
Fill the terminal; a child shrieks, a baby cries,
A drunk laughs and coughs, a glass drops;
The moving walkways are crammed
With the non-stop parade of transients.
We sit at the gate with tired eyes:  Delayed.  
Perhaps the plane will come by midnight.

Above us on a hundred silent screens
Ice skaters waltz to imaginary cantata.
“Salchows”, “toe loops” and “triple lutzes”
Fill the closed captioning;
The skaters with swan like bodies
Swirl in a high-speed pas de deux.

For a moment we glide in serenity,
Dizzy with joy from their spinning.  

A vengeful voice from the loud speakers
Reminds us to report suspicious persons-
Our eyes leave the safety of the ice
To pass judgement on each soul we see,
As the judges tally their points and deductions.

Singers don’t ask why they sing,
Nor painters doubt their coloring;
Dancers don’t complain of pain,
Composers do not hide in shame.
So why do we commiserate?
O, the suffering we endure
To craft a poem that is pure!
How lonely is our chosen path,
Tormented souls who swoon with wrath!
But nobody cares how we take to flight,
So just shut the **** up, and write.

Almost every minute of living
I compromise to survive;
I wait my turn to be heard,
My budget determines which wine,
As I choose a face, a style;
I would have stayed out late last night
But today I had to be on time ...
So I tried to love.

As a child I sang along
All the “believe in yourself” songs-
But don’t step out of line!
Keep to yourself the furious lie
That you are not the worshiped one,
Surrendering to compromise.

Now I read the rave reviews
About a musical on Broadway-
To me such odious sounds
Could make the angel’s wail-
Yet I smile, a social animal
Am I, politically reconciled.

Inside I’m like the seasons and tides
In a greedy need of winning.  
The spider devours its mate
Dead or alive, never to apologize.

All the gods of all the holy books
Welcome only souls without barter-
Appeasement is my concubine.

I stand with you, Tu Fu,
With your ten thousand sorrows.

To say I feel any different than you
With the spring about to mesmerize
And the sound of birds and flutes...

No, at last our spring is looming!
Soon we will leave this room;
I will take my walking stick.

My face is warmed
By the breeze
Swollen in pollen
And happily
I sneeze

And think of you, Tu Fu.

Just plain ***** are the boisterous birds;
All day and all night singing the blues,
The fly me to the moon serenades,
Like Verdi Romeos by the balcony
And Juliets with romantic eyes

O baybah baybah baybah,
My mistress mine, my coy sir,
Embrace me with thy soft feathers
And puteth claws on my shoulder.
O feel my smooth beak sing
Praises on your wings
As we copulate on a cloud,
And take what the rainbow brings.

Perverted pigeons, seductive doves,
All you oversexed dinosaurs,
Is there nothing but that nasty thing?
Could you ever learn to sing of love?

Ah, Love, love...do birds really love?
I dare not assume to know.  
Yet I hear such longing in their songs
Like troubadours or rock and rollers
Chirping in the mating season.

They loiter in every fish market in the world-
Some nap on a breeze above neon signs,
Others on the giant palm trees by the shore;
Some sit on the jagged tips of the moors,
Or on the walkways to the selling carts,
Chased by waddling and laughing children,
Arms extended, fingers fanning the air...

We share the smell of crab and tiger shrimp,
Where fish are stacked head to head, eye to eye,
By the hundreds as rainbow colored corpses
In crates, on nets, like ice packed ears of corn;  
Each wears the same stunned expression,  
At that instant they were suddenly torn  
To end up here in a final transgression
To sustain us and these birds another day.  

How the gulls cruise about our trays of jewels
And perform their chants of common chorus
Known to each human ear, the song of the wild ocean!

They watch our silent parades on the pavements
And sing in languages with different accents
Known only to them; yet we listen
As they hover close to us with wide wings,
Like outcasts from the seas, homeless immigrants,
Who have chosen to live among our fish stalls,
Begging for a handout or a scrap of shell,
To remind us of the of mariners we once were,
Rejoicing in their song, guiding us to the good land.

Trade me for a magic carpet in an ancient tale;
I can be bartered for the lost scrolls of Petronius;
I am worth at least as much as a chunk of comet
That was discovered in the desert;
You can borrow great sums against my library,
Go buy an island and fill it with bonobos
         Who have found the secret of living without prayer;
My fortune allows me to dwell in a vast kingdom
And in my castle is a desk of ocean wood and pearls;  
I own giraffes and peacocks in my gardens
With rouge and scarlet maple trees;
Under them I play arpeggios on my guitar;
I can afford to give a check to saudade
             And not even feel it;
I have holdings in several galaxies
In the exploding cosmos;
I have a full sack of love that I can scatter
Like the apple seeds or the dandelion feathers;
I have my own plane which I call my wings;
I have been called the world’s most valuable player
Every time I score a goal;
I am the hope of all the utopian anarchy
And give my poems away for free;
I store my compassion in maturing cases of wine
From the most expensive of vineyards;  
I cannot even count what sums the brick-a-brac
On my shelves might bring at auction...

But as to my net worth;
Well after you deduct the taxes, debts, and hidden fees,
Brother, can you spare a dream?

We are numb in our tenements, the thick soot
Of prophesy makes a witch-hunt of the heart,
Shell-shocked by absurdity, while a Caligula tweets
That the empire is fully restored in his name;
We have only learned the sorrow of repentance.

The children of No Kingdom are seduced,
Their spirits hang in the citadel of limbo;  
The elders are shattered by the state of siege,
As the edicts to the whispering fear
Make hysterical headlines of the idiotic.

Mobs praise the counterfeit messiah;
I pass these days in a monotone of tomorrows
Watching their parade to No Kingdom;
The angry kin of weary conquerors,
The worshipers of necromantic America.

Town bells of freedom rust in their towers,
To Bezer will swarm the great nation;
Pitiless slays the pitiful, the whole country
"A smoking, stinking garbage dump-
The fires burning day and night..."*

The eyes of my soul behold the native soil-
How they now cry with foul tears.
Exiled are the children of sad immigrants
From the gardens in the promised land,
Obese hatred scorns the starving refugees.

Citizen, our tribe is from the genesis of slaves,
Blood brothers from famine and persecution;
It is not enough to build a pillared temple    
Just to hide in a sewer of dampness and worms-
Are we but the scavengers who remain?

How the spirits of the lofty statues  
Are now homeless on jagged pavements;
The daily lies spread as the vultures feast!
What vengeance claims the coming age of man?
What vain electric offering to our empty land?

To those who **** with words and hateful ways,
In drunkenness they scuff the word of their god.
See them hoist their fascist salutes as the mongrel
Tweets from his rotten bowels to No Kingdom;
While burns our lineage to a poverty of ruins

I have not learned how to sit still,
**** it, I never will.  Nor have I learned
How not to wave my arms when I speak;
By now I should know some words
For the mourners’ congregation by the gravestone;
Not me.

I hate drum-rolls and ******* guitar licks
That blasts in the frozen food section.  
I cannot just ignore Spider-man movies,
I’d rather descend to the ninth rung of hell.
Hogs eat corn, "Je n’aime pas le popcorn",
Hippo gluttony in fields of river plants
Chomp, chomp, chomp...

Teenagers chewing gum, taking selfies-
Where is the love, where is the love?
I can’t talk to Siri without cursing.
Who cares who wins the football game?
Could I see a beautiful woman
And not undress her in my mind?

Sorry, it’s the meds.  What have I learned
But "blessed be patience"
Which I interpret as
The world is too busy with its traffic of red ants-
Stand aloof, keeping out of their path.
  
I go to join the cult of crazies in the park,
Muttering metaphors to keep us off the drink,
Winding our watches, feeding birds,
Headphones blasting requiems of Pergolesi,
As the young ones keep their distance.

How shall I worship womanhood now?
Shall I imagine the youthful face in 40 years
To add wisdom in the creases by the lips
That reflects a redder tone of gloss?

Shall I lower my eyes like a spanked dog
To avoid a stare at the bare cleavage
With its ruby resting in the crevasse by the heart,
While the ****** shows its shape through the silk?

Shall I attempt to not smell the fine perfumes
As did the oils found in an ancient tomb
Once adorn a woman with sweet fragrance,
Or the minted breath and powdered cheek?

Since the invention of the white shirt      
My uniform has just a tie to express my day-
But each woman on this street has her flair,
Her hairdo, purse, ensemble to high heels,

Painted nails, wrists with bejeweled charms,
The daily shift of feathered hats;
How shall I worship womanhood now?
Long ago I chose one and she chose me,

And she still gets her eyelashes done.
I meekly notice the women around me
Like a tourist in an exquisite palace garden
Unable to confide my praise unto the statues.