Limited Linguistics

Word complex


A word or few can hold within its qualms

Entire universes of mysteries and miseries

From that initial jog into view down to

That final extirpation out of entropy’s final thrust.

Lives, of course are more than words, contain

Wonder and pain, love and disgust in configurations

Well beyond the noun or adjective or even verb.

One must contain a throat to scream, a mind

To dream, that sense immense cannot condense

Existence into the formalities of utterable sound

Or even scribbles symbolizing oddly the lightning of life,

That flash of clash that streaks through every now

May echo in linguistic thunder to trace the wonder

Of reality but there is no way that actuality can be trapped

Into the tangles out of the consonants and vowels enwrapped.


Nature As Genius



One might say,

The key is DNA.

A twisted coil of recall

To foil forgetfulness.

Progress and success

Resides in the way

Its architecture confronts

The stunts of the unexpected.

The past has erected probabilities

To test the possibilities

Out of variations.

The wisdom of the helix

Remains in careful mistakes,

In cautious tomfoolery,

To rearrange its jewelry

With hopes it coincides

In what accident provides.

This interplay of circumstance,

The death dance has no magic.

It embraces the tragic to produce

Treasures in the dolphins and the tigers,

In that footprint on the Moon,

Along with eagles, sharks,

As well as, if you please,

Roquefort cheese.

Several billion years, or so

It took to grow my little toe,

That might in turn become a third hand

With thumb.

No one can predict

The strange next advance

Out of chance turned and tricked.

So, am I horrified to see

This human vandal, idiocy

To toss away these treasures

Out of serendipitous creation.

To invite

The final desolation

Of us all.





The time is now or never.

T Rex is long gone.

No random rock plunges to our destruction.

The monsters that wreck our lives,

That would fry our kids,

Have been devised in our own innovations

With not the slightest sense

That they too must sizzle in the conflagration.

This world still exists, is still right here,

It screams

That we must act now

To save it.

There is no one else.

Life itself is at stake.



machine eye


The world, to be fair


Is not there

If you don’t care.

The notion

That emotion

Merely spices up the nices,

Gives significance to chance,

Provides devices to circumstance

To enhance or dismiss

What you prefer to miss

Loses an essential.


Emotion’s not a triviality.

It’s the basis of reality.


You must love or hate,


To act to create fate

Or otherwise you simply don’t exist.


That robots do not care,

Are not aware,

But derive their drive

From algorithm

Is exorcism of its livingness.


When a soldier or a torturer

Or just an average employee

Refuses to be


To care of what or where

Or how performance does

What performance does

As long as money is reward,

He or she becomes

Mere robotry.




Temporal Population

time passage


An event comes,

And goes.

From where,

To where,

No one really knows.

A thing, of course,

Like a horse,

Lasts somewhat longer.

But being born

And dying

Is relatively fast.


Inbetween, what we call life,

Is rarely seen

As quick,

Although its passage

Can feel an augenblick.

It doesn’t really last.


Three quarters of a year

It took

To assemble me together.

And almost a century

For me to fall apart.

Inbetween, I kept clean,

Washed between my toes.

Blew my nose,

Nor ever grew a beard.


Within a few years,

After this body disappears.

Time well spent,

I too

Shall become

An event.



alien planet


My forefinger now that hooks the bright Moon

To beckon possibility that sends an electric shock

Through my elbow to echo through the universe

Inside that dark infinity behind my eyes which

Shakes crystallines of nothingness in freezing apprehension

Where unknown monsters swirl within the dark between the stars.


That footprint left in lunar dust strikes the path we wander on.

Possibly there might be we can see tall mountains, wide crevasses

On other worlds where common air and water are foreign rarities.

But there will be no scents of fresh mown hay, no secret strawberries,

Nor the raucous scream of excited seagulls near froth on sandy beaches.

Perhaps the sun will be blue and here and there a familiar constellation.

By then, a tiger or a racoon will be distant in memory as a stegosaur

And no one could recall just how a cricket could chirp nor the spark of a firefly.




A Backward Glance

T Rex


The bones of yesterday are  pried from stone,

Recapitulated into digitals, muscled, reskinned

Demonstrate where we began,

And, indicate destiny’s termination.


The past has shaped our bones today

And tomorrow’s bones as well

But each day must talk to bones  to tell

How bones must change to arrange

That bones must know to work so well.


The tools of time chip and grow new forms

To slip and shape humanity from ape

For life performs that ways escape, if it can,

That destiny we each face since we began.





Do I play with words,

Or do words play with me?

The to and fro of where we go

Where breezes of consternation blow

Leaves destinations undetermined,

Embarrassed into spins of compasses,

Puzzled as to where and why.

The whether remains incontinent,

Discontents in lightning flash of odd

Inspiration within torrents of verb and noun

Does not console as I shuffle through

The mounds of dry dead words.


This cave is dark, its walls textured

With faint commands of wild bird calls.

There is an underlying hum of continental shift.

The floor, stalagmited in sharp stone teeth

Gnaws in anger and threat of every step.

The ceiling, stellared in bats and ultrasonics

Is no guide.

This passageway has been long, I cannot know

If it will end in that final wall of stone

Or an open sky.