The black pick-up trundles by.
Every late evening the same
trek along these quiet roads
is hated by an unseen driver.

On the back a bottled reservoir
of milk ebbs and flows like ice
on some red planet faraway.
Tonight the telegraphed heat

of coming day means he trickles.
Then all along moonless lanes
he rattles home empty, longing
for rain and the lure of firesides.


Tony Noon

The sky bled on me today
I heard the clouds shriek
As I ran away
But the sound followed me
I heard her sobs
I felt her bleeding
I knew it throbbed

Finally I looked up
As I heard someone say
Stand up sweetie
It's only rain

Dear Carl,

Can I call you Carl?
Our unconscious is collective and a lake of shared experience.
Is the internet an instance of your theories?
I have some queries.

Are these the facts Carl?
Our reflections are collected in a cloud of pooled intelligence.
Is the aggregate a marker of our species?
I have some theses.

Are these our thoughts Carl?
Our enquiries through our browsers hint a dull and cloudy somnolence.
Is the synthesis the same by demographic?
Is this just traffic?

Is this our worth Carl?
Our reprovals and our sledging smacks of asinine belligerence.
Can we speculate more broadly from this sample?
Trolls, for example…

We all have separate phenotypes,
made up of common archetypes,
that form a unique prototype,
for human contribution.

The flavour of each megabyte,
requires an active acolyte,
that gives objective oversight,
to tally the solution.

But what about the eloquence,
beneficence, benevolence,
the sympathetic sentience,
within this cyber-netting?

And what of interinfluence,
of conscious counterviolence,
considered, caring, congruence,
of giving more than getting?

Are you happy Carl?
Your proposals once ethereal now digitally real
—the collection of our thoughts a cyber-consciousness reveal.
Sure, we focus on crash diets, haircuts, shoes, and plastic surgery.
We are more than just a vessel for the latest celeb pregnancy.

These excuses for connection are a cybernetic basis,
for the comfort and affection found across our networked spaces.
While the electronic camera snaps the shadow and insanity,
it also frames our kindness in the brilliance of humanity.

I think it’s fine, Carl.

Sincerely,
Jill

We wait outside long closed electric doors

    
        At last, you take my hand, you cloud-float up
        
            Hospital gown draped over a balloon

                Oxygen mask string dangles, now relaxed

                    Its work is over, I still hold your hand

                        My heels lift slightly, I still hold your hand

                            I can’t come with you; time for letting go,

                                We smile, you float -- drip, tape, and bandage free


My toes have never left their asphalt base

My dearest dream,
    and
        I still feel your hand

I make you up inside my head,
a version all fabricated from my own mind,
like an invisible chain
with a weight attached pulling me in
there is an unreasonable, unrealistic, tug
to get to know you
science can’t explain what this feeling is
that makes me see you
makes me feel like I can read you
a vibration of attraction that physics
hasn’t quite discovered yet
a gravitational pull of my mind leads me to thoughts of another dimension
with a me and a you in an alternate reality of my imagination that feels so real it’s like a memory
call it chemistry or a recollection from a past life
but I see you in my daydreams
A hazy place filled with my fantasies of all the possibilities of humans I feel bonds with but don’t really know