Black Box - July 21 2025

 

Black Box

July 21 2025



In some large windowless building

in the outskirts, where no one goes,

row upon row

of blinking machines

whirrr with electricity,

computing zeros and ones

or making up their own

quantum reality.

This is the cloud

we so blithely speak of;

not a cirrus wisp

against a bright blue sky,

but hardware and chips

and the loud hum of power.

A forbidding place

where all our virtual selves

unwittingly reside.

When I was a child

clouds were the bailiwick of gods;

where the Almighty sat

gazing down

keeping track of our transgressions.

An ineffable God

made of insubstantial stuff;

the ethereal presence

you’d expect of a deity

whose name we were commanded

to never say out loud.

Now here is a cloud

that serves a higher purpose,

a seat

worthy of its occupant.

Or at least would be

if I were still a believer,

or frankly

ever truly was.

Still, there are clouds overhead

shape-shifting as ever.

How water

as vapour

takes every size and shape,

just as frozen

is never the same;

snowflakes

with more permutations

than atoms in the universe.

How even water in its liquid state

is mutable,

taking the shape of its container

no matter what.

And now, earthbound clouds

that do all look the same.

Windowless fortresses

with reinforced floors

where imposing machines

lining spotless corridors

run themselves.

Where, except for some guards

and a bored technician

humans are barred from entry.

Autonomous machines,

whose inner workings

are a black box

no one can see into.

Not a heavenly cloud

floating on air,

but glass and steel

on a concrete foundation.

Our god of ego, and instant gratification,

housed in a soulless building

you’d never notice

in the unlikely chance

you happened by.

A cloud we take for granted

as we scroll and tap away.

Believe in, sight unseen,

perhaps will soon obey.

I wanted to harp more on the vast electrical demand and greenhouse gas burden of the so-called cloud, but only got at that by implication in a couple of lines: the whirrr of electricity and loud hum of power. Instead, I somehow got diverted into a cautionary tale about the potential dangers of Artificial Intelligence. Hence the title.

Ironically, though (hypocritically?!!), I used my own A.I. (a handy app called “Perplexity”) to come up with this, which you’ll recognize from the poem:

The number of possible permutations of snowflakes is astronomical, far exceeding the number of atoms in the universe. For complex, six-fold radial snowflakes, estimates use combinatorial arguments: if a snowflake has 100 distinguishable features, the number of ways to arrange these is at least 100! (factorial) possibilities, which is greater than 10 to the 158th . For comparison, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is about 10 to the 80th.

All The Way Down - July 20 2025

 

All The Way Down

July 20 2025

Am I just imagining

that the land under my feet

is solid ground?

At least something to count on

in a wildly gyrating world.

Or is even that not fixed?

Because I’m told that space is expanding

and time relative;

and what else is there

aside from the 4 dimensions

we know of and can measure?

From my perspective, it’s contraction

all the way down.

I go out less,

my social circle shrinks,

and my horizon closes in

on this house

this room

this chair.

And not only does time go faster

the older I get,

but less and less remains.

So is regression next?

The second childhood

of creeping dementia

increasing dependence

wetting the bed?

And then will I shrink

into a toddler

fetus

hardened homunculus,

until my time comes to an end

and I don’t even take up space?

It’s the 20th,

and I have no idea

where July went.

Once, summer was forever

  — so long, we got bored,

my friends and I

sitting on the curb

idly tossing stones —

but now, the days get shorter

as if all summer wanted

was getting it over with.

Like an old movie,

where clock hands circle dizzily

and calendar pages flip.

I can see the camera zeroing in,

a close-up so tight

I see myself dissolve

into a blur of ghostly light.

Sigh. Another melancholic poem about ageing and the passage of time.

So really, one more poem about death, at least tangentially. Please accept apologies for my persistently morbid turn of mind!

Imaginary Numbers - July 19 2025

 

Imaginary Numbers

July 19 2025

Instead of truth or dare

I play a game

of true or false.

Either/or

no in-between

As if there weren’t shades of.

As if everything was known

or in time will be.

As if eyes were cameras,

and the mind

a recording device.

But you know otherwise.

Because the light changes,

depending

on where one stands.

Because one’s past

tugs at the present,

filters perception,

subverts memory.

So you proclaim your truth

like a precious work of art

with colours no one else can see.

As if there was no such thing

as the truth;

singular

immutable

open to all.

But some things are,

and stay that way

all across the universe.

Because truth matters;

while you can have your beliefs,

and opinions

are take or leave.

Facts,

as binary

as rain or shine

plus or minus

black or white.

As real numbers

and imaginary ones.

Which mathematicians, surprisingly

simply made up.

Who knew

that even strict logicians

also have fun

playing with the truth sometimes.

We live in a time when truth is disputed, objectivity questioned, opinions carry undue weight. When people in authority shamelessly lie, and the credulous believe their lies. When conspiracies are imagined, falsehoods are embraced, paranoia reigns. And when expertise, instead of respected, is scorned.

Yet while there are objective truths — the laws of physics, things we can measure, facts that have been accepted forever — people also legitimately have “their” truths. Because we’re all unique, and everything unique about us influences how we see: from how long since lunch to childhood trauma.

So while both valences of truth exist, some truths are unassailable. No matter how much some people disbelieve and wish they weren’t.

(I’m lousy at math, but understand an imaginary number as one whose square is a negative. (I may very well be wrong!) The combination of all real and imaginary numbers makes up the set known as complex numbers. Which, apparently, can construct equations that have no solutions yet are actually useful in solving some engineering and physics problems . . . At least that’s what I read and pretty faithfully reproduced here, even though it makes no sense at all to me.)

Accelerants - July 19 2025

 

Accelerants

July 19 2025

Arson, they said.

So, did he stand his ground

and watch the forest burn?

Did he slowly back away

entranced by the flames?

Or did he misjudge the wind,

and in ten years

a dog

out for a run

would stumble over his sun-dried bones

scattered teeth

badly scorched ring?

Which are hard to find

where the land had greened

and plants keep reaching higher

competing for light.

I can only wonder why.

Was it a powerless man

asserting power?

Was it the irresistible trance

of uncontained fire?

Or was he a nihilist,

certain

that in the fullness of time

everything burns anyway.

And that, to some degree

we are all accelerants.

No, it must have been lightning, the doubters guessed;

the gods, once again

toying with us mortals

amusing themselves.

Either way, I suppose, he was right,

everything does eventually burn.

But not all at once

and not right now.

Once again, a bad wildfire season: starting earlier, more and larger fires, and more intense ones. Worse year by year, which can't go on, but apparently will.

I can understand the consequences of decades of active fire suppression. I can understand the increasing risk of an expanding human/wild-land interface. I can understand hotboxes on trains and faulty power lines. I can certainly understand lightning and climate change. But arson?!! Apparently so.

What could possibly motivate such an antisocial act? Who would ever do such a stupid thing? Do we need even more evidence of human fecklessness? Isn't climate change denialism enough?!!

Needless to say, I quite enjoyed killing him/her off, while the forest regenerates. And, of course, we are all accelerants, each of us contributing our own small bit to human caused climate change.

My Father at the Wheel - July 12 2025

 

My Father at the Wheel

July 12 2025

Nothing but a sea

of slick 2-tone vinyl

on the long bench seat of my father’s car,

perfect

for cozying up to a lover

or squeezing in with friends.

Except on those hot summer days

when sun poured through the glass,

and bare legs, clammy with sweat

would stick

if at first they didn’t burn;

imagine eggs

sizzling on a cast iron pan.

I remember once

it was just the two of us in that big American car,

my father at the wheel

captain of his land yacht,

navigating the meandering streets

and charming cul de sacs

he’d effortlessly mapped in his head;

some clever planner’s

suburban dream.

And me, his passenger

slouched against the door

gazing vacantly out.

The radio was on his station,

and though I judged it insipid

and him along with it

knew enough not to reach for the dial.

He was, however, a smooth driver,

unfazed

by heavy traffic

tight passing

fast cars;

and that, at least

met with my grudging approval.

I don’t know what we talked about

all those years ago,

him speaking

careful with his words,

and me mostly grunting

eyes on the road.

As I said, a big car

with a big bench seat

most of which lay between us.

A vast gulf

of slick vinyl

we somehow couldn't cross.

Afterlife - July 11 2025

 

Afterlife

July 11 2025

I found out that misfortune

doesn't spare the good.

Cells have a mind of their own.

DNA unspools, breaks, forgets

cars intersect

hearts fail.

There can be sudden death

at the hands of violent men.

I’m neither good nor bad

middling at best.

If well-intentioned matters, perhaps I barely pass,

even though it’s really only acts that count

in one’s favour.

So it seems no one’s keeping score

and there’s no reward

for good behaviour.

The universe is random,

things happen

for no reason at all.

And in its vastness

of immeasurable time

and incomprehensible space

the affairs of men are inconsequential;

we think too highly of ourselves.

But when she died

too young, too vital

after such a hard and painful fight

at least her goodness was returned,

an outpouring of help and well wishers

casserole dishes

left at the door,

a memorial service

that overflowed.

She was unaccustomed to receiving.

A giver to the end

she begged forgiveness

for being of trouble,

even kept up her good works

as best she could.

And goodness like hers

continues to serve

a world in need of more.

I subscribe to no religion

worship no God

think death is final.

And so was reassured to learn

from her example

that there’s no need to believe

in heaven or hell

or indefinite limbo,

in resurrection

reincarnation

or disembodied souls

to know

that the good have an afterlife

all their own.

Another of the Globe and Mail’s Lives Lived feature has inspired a poem. But in writing this, my friend Dorothy also came to mind: who died far too young, and at the hands of a violent man.

It’s nice to imagine that virtue will be rewarded in the ever after. But probably far more helpful in getting through the hardships of life (at least for me) is its obverse: clinging to the belief that evil will be punished.

Unfortunately, neither is true. There is no celestial accounting, and no literal afterlife. But good works live on, and unlike us, memories don’t have to die.

https://globe2go.pressreader.com/article/282175067134763

Unto Themselves - July 10 2025

 

Unto Themselves

July 10 2025

I see the logo on your shopping bag,

the sweatshirt

with your alma mater,

shoes

emblazoned with their brand.

As if what you consume

is who you are.

As if their names

on your desperate masquerade

were fooling anyone.

While I go about unnoticed.

My clothes are monochromatic,

shoes too old to matter,

groceries no-name brand.

As if I’m subtly scoffing

at status seeking,

signalling,

the wisdom of crowds.

Which sends its own signal, doesn’t it?

That I’m pompous

judgemental

above it all,

a member in good standing

of my own virtuous tribe.

If not a monk

renouncing worldly goods,

then a minimalist

relinquishing some.

Or at least an aspiring one;

as if good intentions could absolve me

of my consumerist sins.

Because we all need to belong

non-conformist or not.

Because we all construct an identity

which is mostly borrowed

like it or not.

Except, that is, for the few true eccentrics

I envy from afar.

How they do it, I can’t imagine;

going through life

contentedly oblivious,

happy

unto themselves.

Posterity - July 9 2025

 

Posterity

July 9 2025

I once used pen and paper.

The heft of the instrument,

my firm but tempered grip.

The smoothly rolling ink,

and the pleasing tug of friction

as it scrolls across the page.

On blank white sheets;

no confining lines,

no margins

to box me in.

Now, it’s pixels on a screen.

A tablet of glass,

and the clumsy touch of fingertips

smearing it with prints.

But paper burns

glass breaks

and who knows what or where

the “cloud” exists;

it could rain down any instant,

billions of words and pictures

swirling down the sewer grate.

Cheap acid paper

that won’t outlast a lifetime,

and cutting edge technology

evanescent as light.

Yet the buried shard

of a shattered pot

still bears its maker’s fingerprint,

a man who’s work survives

long past his death.

Human flesh

embossed in clay

and fired to a hard ceramic finish,

as if his hand

had reached out to mine

across thousands of years.

But still, no literary masterpiece

or papal encyclical,

no I have a dream

or Gettysburg Address.

Not even a shopping list.

Just a utilitarian pot

no one gave a thought to,

accidentally dropped

and thrown away.

Single-Speed Coaster - July 7 2025

 

Single-Speed Coaster

July 7 2025



We never locked our bikes.

Dropped them on the ground

outside the everything store

in the low-rent strip mall

where we got our sugar highs.

We measured out exact change

which was all we really had;

pushing nickels

one-by-one

across the glass-top counter

  —  which are bigger

than a 5-cent coin should rightly be

but never mind,

pinching out dimes

squeezed firmly

between finger and thumb,

and parting with quarters

like giving blood.

Back when a dollar went a long way

and we were good at saving-up.

The bikes were freedom machines.

The privileged kids

with their fussy 10 speeds,

and the rest of us on single speed coasters

made of thick tubular steel

that were indestructible

but weighed a ton.

We were free range kids

in the middle of the 20th century

who didn’t know how lucky we were

in those analog decades

of shared prosperity

and suburban smugness;

when the only change, we were sure

would be for the good.

I always bought a Sweet Marie

which I’m sure you’ve never heard of,

chocolate and peanuts

around caramel fudge.

Worth every cent, if you ask me.

Or was

back when a dropped penny

was worth stopping for.

The Sweet Marie,

a confection

made only here,

and discontinued

the year they retired the penny.

2013   . . .

which should mean something

but really doesn’t;

just another year,

just rounding up or down,

just that things change

and sometimes for the worse.

Did at least my rugged bike survive

the march of obsolescence,

abandoned

flat tires and rusting chain

in the back of some garage?

Almost as old as me

and already an antique.

My riderless steed,

yearning for some free range kid

to come and rescue it.

Pretty much it. My first bike (see below). A vintage CCM (“Canadian Cycle and Machine”, which hardly sounds like the manufacturer of sleek cutting edge racers!) Except that the fenders on my first bike were white, not chromed.

The Sweet Marie was like an O’Henry, or down-market Snickers. I also favoured Eat Mores, which were what it sounds like: they were super chewy and took a long time to eat. A good penny-stretcher for a frugal kid.

Secret Tongues - July 3 2025

 

Secret Tongues

July 3 2025

Only when you learn a new word

do you notice the void it fills,

an absence

you were happy with

all your life 'til now.

Like limerance,

a word I stumbled across

when reading of love;

“limerance”,

the intense infatuation you feel

at the start of a new romance,

that exquisite high

when you’re as alive

as you've ever been.

Obsessive love like that

can’t last,

how could it?

It either dies of disillusionment,

or enters the long contented life

of attachment.

But you can’t help chasing it,

because love's as addictive

as any drug.

And because, like heroin

no high is ever as good

as that first ecstatic hit.

Young love

crushing hard.

That state of limerance

we long to rekindle

when the thrill is gone.

And that, when things get stale

leaves you wondering why

you were once so mad for her,

felt

such insatiable desire.

Words beget words,

and this one brings to mind

limbic

glimmering

a liminal state,

as if edging into obsession

flirting with insanity.

But also limited

and even limp.

So the word contains

both its beginning and its end.

Is a wee bit of Limerick

in it as well?

The mystical town

where leprechauns materialize

from out of the mist

and then as quickly vanish,

where Irish wit

takes sharp-tongued delight

with an impish little smile.

As well as the mystical town

where your pot of gold

might — at last — be found.

A single word

that contains multitudes.

But the man who made it up

said he simply liked the sound.

So a word

with no etymology, or Latin root,

no reason to exist

except how it rolls off the tongue.

Who knew

you could choose a word

for its beauty alone.

A word I’ll never use

after I'm done with this poem.

Because what use is a word

that's so obscure

no one's heard it before?

A word

like the leprechaun

who’s there, but really not,

like the ones we know

but go unheard

because we only hear ourselves.

So a word

that will stay

between you and me.

The secret tongue

just the two of us speak.