Three Poems
by Doug Knowlton
Classic Hot Wings
. . . punishment will follow blood:
out of my ruin, the only good.
—from Ceres' Sacred Oak, Ovid's Metamorphoses
Yeah, he's a master craftsman, builds Disney-
esque, ancient underground attractions where
you can imprison monsters, or ride the rides, have
a spiritual experience, or nab a naiad—But,
he could not make safe wings for his son to escape
the tower? “Feathers and wax”? Really? And—
it turns out, yeah, go figure it was
the son's fault. Yup, caught between hubris
and complacency, I-boyo had to show off his NFL strut
and fly directly into the fire. Assisted suicide?
Euthanasia? No matter, blame it on the kid.
Right. He warned him! Tell me again—why
did they need to escape? Wasn't Minos happy
with his Minotaur cage? Ah yes, Ovid clues us in.
Makes sense. He didn't want the secret floor plans
published in the fake news. Still, father and son
got away anyhow. Son drowned, while D-Dad,
they say, got to spend Father's Day in Sicily.
The word swiftly flew in the Sicilian news
of how, over wine, pasta and puttana, the secret
of how to navigate a labyrinth was revealed.
Highly Susceptible
No life on earth can be hidden from our dreaming.
—Odyssey, Book XII
Hooking up to head-tech
is our destiny. It is like a new limb after amputation,
or dentures following severe gum disease. After all,
once the noticeable deterioration of neural encoding,
the clunky slowdown of personal RAM begins
storage matters less than retrieval—and,
the frequent slips of cog once
the once-quick mind submits
to the faster-brighter-younger crowd. Face it,
when you begin to make cantankerous public
statements about how one's only calling is to get
in the way and slow others down, I would say, yeah,
we are susceptible.
This old(er) guy joked for a year among those youthful
associates at the interim job in electronics, about how
his physician planned to insert a neural chip
behind his right ear in that southern Occipital region.
He endured their cautious laughter, their wry
skepticism. I know, even in this crowd some are
scratching their heads, wondering
what the hell is he talking about?
It's okay, no worries, you may not
be familiar with the concept, not acquainted with the classics
like Asimov, Heinlein, Clarke, or Card, not a Fringe watcher,
missed the Kurzweil interview, have not imagined yet, how lit up
and quick your brain will be on 6g to say nothing
of the lightning Web searches you will perform
when you close your eyes—the information not merely
at your fingertips, but a nanosecond away from your synapses.
We are looking at an instant cure for the disorders
that plague us and will put others
right out of business.
We are not talking about helmets and goggles here,
no earpieces or funny wires, nope. We are talking about
a miniature motherboard, smaller than
a blue tooth, tinier than a one terabyte flash drive. Yes,
imagine it, Hal and Jane both in your head,
and who knows who else—
The dawn of a new world.
Brain sex.
The end of disease.
What will be born from this
union? Instant connection with any living creature's
experience on the planet via the ultimate You Tube of
virtual real presence. Ubiquitous trans-
substantiation every time you take a breath.
On the mainline with Gaia.
The monolithic realization (even now teasing
at our communal consciousness) will finally dawn: Who
needs a priest or any other intermediary for that matter?
Every plugged-in person will have god in their head,
and be Gods of their own world. It is, after all,
the proper end
and assimilation of every religion.
The twenty-second coming.
Yes.
Finally.
Control of the unruly populace
without dictators or a police state or big brother.
Soma, long ago co-opted by the pharma corps
as a muscle relaxant and sleep aid will be passé.
Purdue and Teva execs will roam the streets
and dig in the trash bins for their next meal.
We have got a new gig, Aldous.
Ready?
In the Bag
This writer of poems is known as Doug, though his “legal” first name – always required by business officials and medical professionals, is Lloyd, bestowed on him by his father and grandfather. We are told that his last name originated in Dorset and means ton on a knoll. As Wiki states: “Its most recognizable features are a ruined Norman church built within a Neolithic henge monument.” In other words, a ghost town. Doug is known as the old guy who fiddles with his computer in the back room of the bookstore and occasionally hosts a poetry writing workshop.