Thursday, January 30, 2014

An Important Man

I am an Important man.
Lantern jaw, custom suits, fast car and a driver.
Global corporate CEO, Chairman of the Board.
Charting economic courses, Captain of my industry.
I am an Important man.

I am an Important man.
Multi million bank accounts, mansion and a yacht.
Five star chef, sommelier, and a masseuse on staff.
Private island, Swiss chalet, castle on the Rhine.
I am an Important man.

I am an Important man.
But when my love is taken ill and doctors lack a clue,
When tests are inconclusive, diagnosis is unclear,
And she is fraught with tears and fear of what the future brings,
The power, prestige, and possessions grow irrelevant.
Her suffering is amplified. It cuts me like a blade.
And my true nature is revealed.
I am an impotent man.

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Block Broke

A poet I admire once told me what to do
when inspiration's engine won't engage.
Just keep the cursor moving or the pen across the page
with whatever stuff and nonsense comes to mind.

Write about the block itself the weather or the news,
It doesn't really matter much at all.
The chicken in the crock pot with cilantro marinade
or the chocolate cake with frosting for dessert.

The dog is sleeping soundly on his bed beside the stove.
While in the furnace burn dead dinosaurs,
adding to the weight of atmospheric greenhouse gas.
It's ironic that the weather's so damn cold.

Tomorrow and tomorrow I will work an 8 to 6.
The shipyard is a place that doesn't sleep.
Destroyers for the Navy, lots of steel to 'fit and weld.
And on Friday wear a bow tie, ' cause it's cool.

I didn't mean the weather when I said "because it's cool."
I was thinking of the Doctor and his suit.
Though number four’s my favorite, with his jelly baby taste,
Eleven and his bow ties are quite smooth.

I've rambled on enough about this case of writer's block.
My consciousness won't stream another verse.
I hope that by tomorrow I'll be on to better prompts
With more meaning than this elemental curse.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

The point of no return....

"In everybody’s life there’s a point of no return. And in a very few cases, a point where you can’t go forward anymore. And when we reach that point, all we can do is quietly accept the fact. That’s how we survive."
— Haruki Murakami

The bottom of the trench is dark.
The water should be cold.
But by tectonic happenstance
and random crustal fold,
the geothermal gradient
in these parts is immense,
and harvesting that energy
is naught but common sense.

The hydrostatic pressure
and the temperature are hell. 
The phosphorescent lifeforms
look like Hades' spawn as well.
A hostile work environment
for human or machine,
but splice them into Rifter,
an amalgam, a marine

Technician that can physic'ly
sustain the kind of stress
that living on the ocean floor
near thermal vents suggests.
Now scramble up their Psyche,
make them crave adrenaline.
That's the part from which there's no way back
to whom they might have been.

Now an aquanaut custodian
of geothermal plants
providing cleaner energy
than fossil fuels. The rants
of dire climate degradation
rendered all but moot
by Rifter techs, once human,
who have been rebuilt to suit.

Headline San Diego....
....Fusion power's here at last.

A rif on the characters and technology depicted in the novel Starfish by Peter Watts.

Image by Scott Clarke from depicting characters and setting from Starfish by Peter Watts. Attempts to contact the artist have been unsuccessful to date. Credible objection to the use of the image will be honored by it's removal.

Saturday, January 18, 2014


A network of linked comments
Each attached to different posts.

Channel surfing in the aether
Threads in chaos (too verbose?)

Puzzle pieces fit together
Though the pattern is unclear.

Hell. My head hurts from composing
Let's all go and get a beer.

_A spontaneous reaction to the 'G+' version of phone tag. Inspired by a very real exchange with +Amy Glamos. The muse oft strikes fast and hard....and leads to some very strange places!_

Friday, January 17, 2014

Poetry for the Palate

Ciabata or focaccia,
split in half and toasted light.
Liberal spread of lemon hummus,
Or the like.

Drizzle with the oil of olives
And balsamic vinaigrette.
The former is an option,
you may choose.

Top with slices of the queen,
Stuffed with pimentos nat'raly.
A snack, you will agree,
That's heaven sent!

Monday, January 13, 2014

The Muse

My muse came to me in a dream one night,
her tilted smile and eyes that sparkled bright.
she took my hand as we went for a walk,
and not a word was said.

We walked through verdant forests rich with life,
through ghettos full of poverty and strife,
on beaches where the mighty oceans raged.
My senses overflowed.

We watched young love ignite and spread it's wings,
the pain of birth with all the love it brings,
and elders wracked with grief and left alone.
My heart broke in my chest.

I turned and saw the tears stream down her face.
We lingered. A chaste but intimate embrace,
before she faded to that Cheshire smile,
and left me to my words.

I dreamt about my muse again last night.

With thanks to my muse.

Thursday, January 9, 2014

Self Inflicted

The Beauty passing on the beach
begets exquisite agony.

A pain so real it takes my breath away.

Saturday, January 4, 2014

The Bridge

With a hundred yards to go the bridge hove into view. The red railings stood out against the snow on the deck and the green boughs of the pines on the far (physical) side of the chasm.

As Jason shortened the distance, he tried to ignore the cold and the crunch of the packed snow beneath his boots. He concentrated on checklists and protocols, engaging embedded tech and traditional bio-feedback to maintain biological parameters within the operational envelope. That was the real purpose of the foot-borne approach - to give the operative time to get his game face on and make peace with his Assembler.

Despite the training and the tech, uppermost in his mind was last night's argument with Lynn. He kept replaying it, almost shredding the op-envelope on several ocassions.

"This was not supposed to be your op! I thought we had another six months!"
She knew about the backup rotation. She knew it was Jason's week on call.

The seventy yard mark and the frosty plume of each exhale stabbed forward along his path of travel. The virtual heads-up displays in Jason's contacts indicated that the op-envelope was intact and that the entanglement dampers near the center of the bridge were cycling up.

Lynn had her own op scheduled fourteen months out. She was just starting the second round of surgical work-ups.

"Look, Lynn, I know this is a surprise, but we knew it could happen this way. Anyway, in fourteen months none of this will matter."

"Jason. This is now."
With that her gaze turned inward and down and a single tear trailed down her left cheek. Jason went to her and held her, but she did not return the embrace. She whispered in his ear, "go to hell." 
At that, a wry smile blossomed on his face.

Fifty yards and the sentry approached. " the flight ratio of an unladen swallow?" He said, rolling the r for dramatic effect.

Jason just looked at him deadpan with a nearly imperceptible head shake, then looked down and that wry smile blossomed again. "African or European?"

"No way, man. This is your gig." The sentry clapped him on the back, took a few readings  confirming the integrity of the op-envelope and turned to go. "Go to hell."

Jason waved and continued his approach.

Twenty five yards out. Stray lobes of the amplification field tickled J's sensors and made the inside of his eyelids itch. Next came an exquisite case of the niggles as the amp-field properly embraced him. Jason stopped  for a few moments to let the irritation subside and become acclimatized.

Jason thought about Eric and the send off bash 3 nights ago. They had thoroughly indulged his penchant for pin-ups, stylish automobiles, and rich desserts along with ample quantities of intoxicating beverage. It was the combination of the second and the last which led Jason to this spot. The ruin of the Bugati was in the motor-pool garage.

Fortunately, Eric was the only human casualty; and the nature of his injury was more embarasing than life-threatening. He usually slept on his stomach  anyway.

That wry smile again. Jason pressed on.

The protocols were more involved now. No more ruminating on friends and frivolities. Jason was all business, establishing handshakes between the embedded tech and related aspects of the amplified singularity, testing his control of the proximal aperture, and removing every stitch of  clothing.

The existence of micro-singularities had been common knowledge for many years. That they existed on-planet was known only by subject matter experts. That they were intelligent and could broker human transport to the distal end of a wormhole located on a habitable planet was known only by the handful of people on this installation.

This particular singularity was known simply as "Troll" because he had taken up residence under this bridge eons ago. And the planet on the other end of Troll's wormhole was named Hell.

At the ten yard mark Jason removed his boots. He was in the trance of the terminal protocols. The cold of the snow under his feet barely registered as he closed the distance to the bridge. An aura accumulated about him, green and coruscating. A matching aura formed between the rails at the center of the bridge.

When the auras met, Jason passed through the aperture and was gone. His image faded rapidly. In a moment all that was left was the memory of his wry smile and the snow covered bridge with the red railings.

Wednesday, January 1, 2014


Don't look at me.
I'm hideous.

Don't talk to me.
I might think you want a friend.
Or worse, that it could be me.

Then begin again The Dance.
Where things are nice.
For way too short.

Conversation, clever posts.
A meeting of the minds.

Then you see.

And draw away? No...

Silence. It goes downhill.

I reach out, thirsty.
Clingy, mewling.

I persist, hungry.
Manic, cutting capers.
Ever thus - The Fool

Then in the mirror.
I catch a glimpse.

And draw away? No...

It's me, not you. Clearly.
So, so, sorry.

Topside? Virgil Brigman on the bottom.
I'll be staying for awhile.
Goodnight. Sleep tight.

Don't follow.

Image by Scott Clarke from depicting characters and setting from Starfish by Peter Watts. Attempts to contact the artist have been unsuccessful to date. Credible objection to the use of the image will be honored by it's removal.

Virgil Brigman is a character from the movie The Abyss by James Cameron.