Her recumbent silhouette
       suggests a resting cello,
Reinforced by two-tone robe
       with maple-cedar sash,
The relaxing redwood deck
       reflects her sleeping shadow,
Resonance in light-dark notes
       —mahogany and ash

Her adorning muted hair
       evokes the Polish horses,
Rosin dusts the frog-tip leash
       from gold and silver tail,
A lamenting solo air
       reverberates with losses,
Transposes down the Saint-Saëns Swan
       into a minor scale

The veranda’s cypress pine
       protects a tiny surface,
Imitates a child-sized shade
       to stay the waves of pain,
The descending water drops
       engulf the resting cello,
The air cries, “They are gone now”
       and so, we let it rain

Today I will become an ephemeral thing
the mist in the flowers
the feeling in the forest that you are not alone
the ocean’s salt caress
No one can touch me
They do not have the right
My gifts are only for those who seek them
and have the strength to bear their weight

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

A moth goes to see the foot doctor
He just flew right in.

Chiropodist said
What can do for you?
My winged friend
You know you're looking  pretty blue
What could I do for you?

Moth said
Doc I don't know where to begin
My life is framed by cowardice
Shame and sin
I lost my wife this year
She succumbed to an illness that she kept
Hidden from me
Right till the end
My daughter won't even look at me
She says I lack
All integrity
And I see cowardice in my sons eyes
It's the same I see
Staring back from the mirror to me
Every morn
And then I go to my job
I work for robots and I'm governed
By ghouls
I'm one of many millions
Of credulous fools
I keep loaded gun
Cocked and ready
On my bedside table
Should I
Develop the *****
In short doc
My life is a swirling toilet
That refuses to flush

**** me!
The chiropodist said
My friend you are clearly in need
Of psychiatric help
But you must know
I'm not qualified
To prescribe
The medicine
And therapy
You need to survive
So tell my moribund friend
Why did you come here
To consult
With a doctor of feet?

The moth said
Because your light was on.

All great creative storytellers know,
As you do, Adams, Asimov, and Wells,
The time machine was built so long ago

Expression chassis, tonal power cells,
The primary engine, sending us with word,
As you do, Adams, Asimov, and Wells

The second engine, flashback, and a third
—portend, exhausts each piston-fired clue,
The primary engine, sending us with word

The epoch steering, future or review,
Remember back, or forward fantasy
Portend exhausts each piston-fired clue

Captain Imagine, Wingman Memory,
With engines run on image, tone, and phrase,
Remember back, or forward fantasy

Like Atwood, Pratchett, Liu, and Philip K,
All great creative storytellers know,
With engines run on image, tone, and phrase,  
The time machine was built so long ago

I never understood how someone could drink

How someone could throw away their life for a single sip of whiskey

How they consumed what they knew could **** them

But then I'd lay in bed for hours on end

And those hours became days

Days became months

Months became years

A never-ending cycle of torment

And some way

Somehow  

I understood