thirteen years ago she stood beside him
in a ponytail and simple T-shirt
eyes steady on the nimble hands
that rested on the handle of the hot iron
heat against heat a quick catch
his wrist jerks and the platter flips
onto its stomach flames slowly roasting
into the milky batter across the bumps and crevices
of each drop
and
now she stands in a short buzz cut
with quick swift strokes dabs the thick mix
into each shell one two three
before a quick snatch of the handle
heat against heat flips the griddle onto its back
then calls thirteen dollars apiecethirteen dollars apiece
while a surge of coins twinkle into
the rusted can
under the partial awning
half tucked away from the blistering orb
the wheels of the cart
lock into step
of when a small child and her father
once stood side by side
But I’ll remember it for you.
You gorged yourself on wild pears
Scarred apples picked from gnarled trees
Snakes lurked underfoot among the tall grasses
But you learned to eat your fear with screams,
Transformed it into ecstasy.
You had no use for quiet.
From brambly bushes you plucked the berries
that snapped sweet and tart in the mouth
staining the tongue, the teeth.
What you didn’t eat right there
Beneath the hungry yellow sky
You carried home in the loose hammock of your skirt
For your mother to cook down into jam.
Curiosity: A love letter to abandoned houses by Monica Lacey
there was no way to tell
before
just how
hard a floor could be
no reason to know
the hours one could zoom
through days
dazed, cross legged
seated posing
laptops on laps
tablets on tummies
work life balance
Circa 2008 by Teri Donovan
charging souls
previewing self
on mute
(unmute)
finding all the pretty corners
wanderlust in dusty corners
trying to seduce
nature onto shiny
plastic trees
editing myself
for myself
curating tiny boxes
for tiny boxes
moveable backstories involving art
or if they don’t they will
a teak lamp
an old typewriter
anything whimsical, whiskery
(Oh, the cats)
dressing to catch the eye and say
i’m happy here i’m just fine my minutiae tells you so
What could go wrong? Sure, go for it,
commission the services of some software
to sail the edgeless expanse of algorithms
on a mission to discover why humans believe.
Douglas Adams was right: the only meaning of life
we are capable of finding equals 101010.
It is such a surprise, isn’t it?, when a child of Deep Thought
calculates that people can be manipulated.
Tweak a social factor there, a political one there,
and you have the power to move people between
religion and atheism. All Things Bright and Beautiful
are rendered great or small. The map approaches
the size of the Empire. Next step? A better UX
so a layperson can change the variables —
the funding proposals could call it METPHR.
So turn your keys to power, step right up
enter your vectors, calculate your result,
and don’t forget to save and print,
tear off the sprocket edges, tuck it into the pocket
of your expensive suit and away you go.
(Author’s note: In Douglas Adams’ sci-fi magnum opus The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the supercomputer named Deep Thought calculates the answer to “the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything” as “42” (or 101010 in binary). More information on the Modeling Religion Project can be found here.)
An Ecumenical Embrace by Su Rogers (Art Bank of NS)
The Modeling Religion Project
Boudica tree
kite, witch-tree
Bird trailer, cast onward
english, southward.
— Vogon Poetry Bot
April 8, 2020, 7 a.m.
Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds.
— Alfred Lord Tennyson, “Boadicea”
1864, time unknown
Ah, how to explain to you, Warrior Queen,
your name has just been invoked by a bot
generating poetry by fictional expansionist aliens?
Welcome to our millennium, Mother of Forsaken Queens.
Here, you’ll need more than a dart and a lioness-like stare
to pry out some truth from beneath the strata of ironies.
In our defense, oh Razer of Imperialist Ambitions,
the Victorians were, like, totally way worse than us —
we are too self-deprecating to do any real damage.
But the Victorians cast a statue of you guarding London.
Remember that place? That hive of imperialist scum
you burnt to the ground? Yeah, that’s the one.
So what, oh Lover of Liberty, if our laughter
echoes over us in eternal loops of self-referentialism?
The feedback only hurts a little. And, besides,
out of evil absurdity flourishes. Out of tyranny irony buds.
Author’s note: In Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the poetry composed by Vogons is the third worst in the universe and used as a form of torture. In 2016, 38 years after the original Hitchhiker’s radio play aired, the Vogon Poetry Bot began generating computer-written poetry on Twitter. In 2020, almost 2000 years after her death, Queen Boudica of the Celts was dubiously honoured as the subject of one of the Vogon Bot’s “poems.”
Boy and girls were given the task to build software from scratch,
Their very own.
The boys got to it immediately, building it up from bones.
Began to hatch,
A plan, a strategy to wind it up, put in the least amount of work.
The boys, they were expected to excel.
No back-ups, they knew they wouldn’t fail.
The girls they paused, racked their minds,
Immediately thought it wasn’t plausible.
Immersed in self-doubt,
They took the longer route, they put thought,
Into how things became, how they were, how they can be.
But the weight of doubt wore them down.
The girls donned shaky confidence.
The girls consulted their class notes, insulating the plan, lest they fail.
The boys of the class began to goad,
Offered their ideas.
As if the girls had any shortage.
The boys had gone past level one,
Of trial and examination,
With fun and play.
The software was good enough, plus
The boys felt content and complete
With so little, there were more opportunities to accommodate.
Ever so focused on one end goal
Tackling every obstacle that tried to stall
Their destination.
The girls labored on the state,
Of this one project,
Faltering, thinking, crying, laughing, rejoicing.
Succeeding.
A hundred journeys morphed into one.
The girls devised the roadmap, every hindrance, minute detail.
All that planning, double the effort.
The challenges of time, the burden of smug advice,
From their male counterparts stood
Heavy on their backs.
They had a point to prove.
They’ve never had it without a fight.
A path, half-imagined, half-existing, laden with difficulties
Fully in sight.
The next time you teach your son
The easier ways of life,
Make sure your daughter hears them, too.
