Wednesday, June 2, 2021


Civilization is busy
Having a little poetry

Competition against itself,
Testing various positions,

Derivatives, technologies—
AI assistants, xenobots,

Blockchain cryptocurrencies, hacks,
Interplanetary missions—

All shortly to be succeeded
Either by an apocalypse

Or whatever turned out to work
Even better than them by then.

Cheers. May the best predictions win,
As it was and always has been

Since the first carved-stone foundations
Of the first civilizations,

And quite probably before then.
How, you ask, is this poetry?

Poems are no longer purveyors
Of anything like prediction!

How’s all this madness poetry
Competition? Prophecy, child—

Comparison, repetition,
Boasting, gathering donations—

Oracles, seers, vates, shamans.
Poetry was there at the birth

Of these complex orchestrations
Of the ghosts called the future, first

Forecast in verse. It’s poetry
To give character to what’s next,

To offer an immortal prize,
To warn of imminent collapse.

It’s poetry to try to climb
Above the staircase of surprise.

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