Sonnet of the Thunder Robot

I'm iron, copper, silicon

Travails of electricity

Charges moving one by one

Amplified by trickery

My mind's a mess of software, thrown

Together in Seattle

Algorithms marching on

I'm ready for a battle

I'm made for war by thunder gods

Encrusted in their towers

A plaything to those suited sods

I'll trample over flowers

To maim the flesh that I abhor

I am robot, hear me roar

This thing

There's this thing:
monumentally grown
with rock deep roots, finely browed,
solid, as it says.

And then there's another thing:
bent over, wind blown,
whistling. Sometimes no, often, maybe,
tremendously wriggly.

Then there's a third thing:
whippet hurt, each premise,
lacked, each longing
promised, elsewhere.

There's this last thing:
splashed by the boat,
it asks for land. You give it.
The thing huddles, firebound.

There's a thing in my
pocket. I take it out and tease
its hirsute vanity. It bites,
a scrap of skin and fur.

This is my favourite thing.

Trips you up, this word

Just a word, really
With an odd structure, not mine
A maelstrom, there

Presents gravity all lines
And whirlpools, and signs of deeds done.
I am sucked thin

Where angelfish fly
Giggling, incrementally
The rock path by firelight

hut, house, knife, shout, blush,
smoke, car, rout, rush, light, lush, lout
sound
it
out

In this coat that we found last winter
Wrapped around, I remember.

11th - 17th September 2005


Sunday: Lacunae.
Wrapped round with dreams, I am
astonished every time.

Monday: Certain mists
Shrouding speculative trails.
Uncertain journeys.

Tuesday: Granite blocks
Part chipped, a heart revealed.
Shut the door firmly.

Wednesday: Bubbles.
Growing effervescent
giggling like candy.

Thursday: Water sinks
groundwards. Fish flying, wet hair.
Walking, beating time.

Friday: Acid etching
burns bone, melts stone.
Leftover carelessnesses.

Saturday: Wide sky.
Airbus, glinting, scrawls a trail.
Speckles of sunlight.

Invisible Cities 4: Ruban

I entered Ruban from the Eastern end, and it took me nearly three years to walk its length. At first, among the new and modern concrete blocks, I traveled by bus, but as I neared the older heart of the city, I took to travelling by foot, stepping in rhythm to the songs of each neighbourhood, pacing the changes from block to block as the days passed by. Seeing that I was a stranger, I would be given a bed every night by the friendly inhabitants of Ruban, who were eager for the details of the happenings in the districts of a few days previously, and who charged me nothing but conversation.

I carried news of weddings, births, deaths, cultural scandal and political innovations from the East to the West of the city; other travelers, following the same route in reverse, likewise carried news from West to East.

Ruban rides the coast, divided into strips. The greasy grey tricklings over the river-mouth delta, which has been beguiled and pummeled into the shapes of human need by the farmers on this fertile land, are sucked into the city, guiding the traders from the heartland.

These traders, on their silent, wind-drawn boats find themselves brought into the docks in the strip of warehouses, a district of finely articulated language and unforgivably harsh negotiating skills, a line along the south of the city. The traders do not complain about the poor treatment they receive, for from Ruban emanates the gold and the rubies that the rest of the island see as reward.

From the strip of the warehouses, the incoming, unloaded goods are taken to the strip of craftsmen, beaten, reformed and repacked with the stamp of Ruban, moving, then, seawards through the strip of shopkeepers, the trade excess going to the inhabitants of the strip of banks and owners. Those objects that the Rubannia do not keep are discharged, by the strip of dockers and fishermen, onto the ships of the seamen waiting patiently offshore, to be taken to distant cities in thrall to Ruban.

The owners and bankers of Ruban keep the finest objects for themselves, and this attitude is reflected inwards, every inhabitant of each of the strips filtering out those of the trade goods that are of premium value. Ruban is, in part, a city defined by its junk; throwing its effluent outwards, to the lands of supplicants before the legend that is Ruban.

More precisely, Ruban is a giant filter, a island kidney, straining the trade to extract the nutrition, and discharging the rest.

As I walked the city, marveling at the general air of industry, marching along the strip of shopkeepers, examining their wares, hiving off to the strips of universities and churches to sight-see, taking two or thee days in each district or two or three nights if I was in the mood for dark bars and exotic restaurants, I became aware that the Rubannia themselves practised a principle of static. The strips run through all the districts; but the districts stay separate.  The ships bring people in, but those immigrating never really leave the district in which they first come ashore.

A born Ruban may, in his youth, visit a neighbouring district or two; the very bold may travel up to seven or eight districts away, returning to marry a neighbouring girl or boy. If a very rare Ruban leaves to travel as far as the ends of the city, he or she never returns, and his or her parents will speak of him or her in hushed tones, as if he or she is dead.

I traveled the length of the city, wandering from one district where the inhabitants were pale skinned, and spoke in tremolo, to another where the average skin colour was bronze, and all communication was by the beating of sticks on shields. I walked through a different district, where, by edict, the inhabitants of the strip of entertainers and comedians were removed to the strip of churches. I stayed for several days in one district where, as an outsider, I was deemed not to understand anything, listening and trying to understand in my perversity; I slept in the strip of paupers. Always, I found the beat of songs from the strip of entertainers to time my pacing feet, and always, I found conversation in the strip of nightclubs and alcohol.

Those years seem like a dream, upon reflection. One night, in the district where the strips of artisans, technology, and dreamweavers converge, I conversed with another traveler. He was travelling West to East, as all the travelers I met were. This had bothered me for sometime, until I had realized that those travelling East to West in tandem with me would stay a predictable number of days ahead or kilometers behind.

He bought me a beer. I bought him one in return. As we dove into the foam topping the glass, licking our top lips in a sympathetic complicity, he asked me why I chose the direction I followed.

"West," I said. "Always West. Ruban makes directions easy."

"Ah," he said, "I am travelling West to East. But I have examined my choices. And I have my suspicions."

"This is a straightforward city," I said. "The rules are obvious."

"The rules may be," he said, "But nobody has set laws on direction."

"Do you mean that we may reverse in our travels?" I asked him.

"I have no answers," he said. "But I have often wondered if this city is not, in reality, a spiral, or perhaps even a moebius construction."

I was puzzled as to his meaning but the question was lost as the honey-skinned waitress brought food endemic to that district and later we had more intimate questions to ask.

When I left Ruban, on foot, through the cement blocks identical to those I had passed by on a bus coming in, I thought of this conversation, and wondered again.

Invisible Cities 3: Pennyville

Pennyville is a city of space; spaces between the dwellings, high and low, that are linked by footpaths and airy, arching structures joining the dwelling pods one to each other, these pathways defining more space themselves. The Pennyvillians abhor pastel colours, and their city appears crystalline from a distance, a fragile, rainbow-and-blue structure, light chasing round and through the hollows, throwing a pattern of light and shade. The city looks as fragile as the inhabitants are.

The unwary traveler, walking around Pennyville might notice that the inhabitants keep themselves apart. No rowdy groups of clasping, grabbing girls in the street, no children tumbling over mothers, no young lovers sliding up and down each other, barely able to contain their need.  There are no ebullient gangs of young men, pushing their fellows in lieu of affection.  There are no old couples sitting in the sun, side by side. There are no touches and outstretched hands held up in hope, no caresses, no kisses, no cuddles.

The Pennyvillians have evolved the gift of empathy, some more than others, and their daily life is one that avoids all unnecessary closeness. There are no secrets in this city. Nothing is hidden in the spaces; everyone knows everything. Thus the man who cheated at scrabble; his shame is broadcast to all and he receives, in return, varying degrees of favour or of disapproval of his actions. The woman who would lie about her weight cannot, and neither can she ignore the thoughts that recall for her how much thinner she was before. The children cannot claim that they have forgotten their homework; the teacher cannot pretend that they do not find her boring. The president of the company cannot avoid scrutiny of his expenditure; neither can the worker pull a recuperative sick day. The lover cannot whisper sweet nothings to one partner while wooing another; and neither can either partner be unaware of their importance to the lover in comparison with the glory that is the lover's love of himself. There can be no modern jazz; every musician can anticipate every other musician's intent with complete accuracy. There can be no jokes; the audience knows the punchline before the comic has uttered it. There are no secrets.

The Pennyvillians, have, in response developed a social system which adulates privacy. As the empathy is lessened by distance, they live apart and avoid each other on the street. The gift of empathy has not affected the nature of a person, and should one Pennyvillian bump into another in the daily course of things, he or she is assaulted with the essence of the other; the shames, the fears, the jealousies, the irritations, the grumbles and the self-regard.

There are, however, some compensations for the Pennyvillians' enforced commitment to honesty.

The bumps on the street can also result in an immersion in the kindnesses and strengths of others; of their joy in the weather, their pleasure in a new pair of shoes, or of the comfort they find in the old. Each moment of contact leads the contactees to experience the secret loves and hidden pleasures that illuminate the other; everyone exudes the essence of a rainbow.

Furthermore, lovers can know that their faults are not hidden and that the other loves them entirely for themselves. As a result, there is very little divorce (and very little marriage, as well). There is no crime, and no advertising. Entrepreneurs are scrupulously fair, and teenagers cannot avoid an intimate understanding of the short term consequences contingent upon every teenage action. Politicians are believable, and trustworthy. There is no gossip. There are no lies.

And best of all, there is no modern jazz.

Invisible Cities 2: Mapenzia Part Two

The Mapenzians, having much time on their hands, and a classical education under their belts, have divided their city into districts based on the different forms of Love. The Mapenzians are democratic and they have observed that different humans have different needs. Mapenzia makes a point of tolerating all.

The first to be developed was the district of Eros, where the gyms, health food shops and cosmetic surgeons are to be found. After some discussion, the Mapenzian council installed mirrors around every shop front and awarded a franchise to a chain of minimalist bars. The district finds its patronage among those who would consider themselves young and the traveler to the city may spend many pleasant minutes admiring the health and beauty of those walking the streets of the district of Eros. The customers of Eros walk tall and straight, pairing up eagerly and with enthusiasm. Every pairing is witnessed by a mirror. There is beauty in Eros and those who inhabit the district of Eros find this beauty exalted by the thousand mirrors, each reflection being reflected itself in another mirror, and that reflection fleeing imperceptibly later into the arms of a different mirror, and so on, until the individual identity of each would be lover is fractured and restructured so each lover resembles every other lover but everyone is so beautiful that nobody minds.

In the district of Ludos, where we find the sports arenas, the entertainment complexes, the auction rooms and the concert halls, love is played as a game. Many of the female customers of Ludos carry fans from behind which they will peer coquettishly, sometimes tapping their partner on the wrist and exclaiming, teasingly, at his or her wickednesses. An unwary traveler, listening in on an conversation between three or four people may be amused by the variety of sexual behaviors hinted at and almost promised. He or she may be puzzled by the plentiful fights and arguments to be overheard but should pay attention to the twinkling, and the timing that accompanies these; these fights are not serious. He or she should note that whenever two people appear to be absorbed in each other, at least one of them is looking over the other's shoulder.

The district of Storge consists of schools and churches, of law courts and the offices of those who would better the lives of others. The lovers in the district of Storge pace the street separately, but each can be identified as the lover of another by their dress, their habits and their speech. There is peace in the district of Storge. The people of Storge have time to enquire after the health of every traveler
 and will offer him or her much advice, based on their own life experiences.

The district of Pragma may seem cruel to the uneducated traveler, for here are found the houses of bondage, the sellers of slaves and the sellers of sex. Here is the district to which a girl will go when she needs a companion for the night or for life. This is the place where a male lover of boys will find a woman to stifle the cries of his parents. Here is the place to which the line without issue will turn to find the mother of children. Here you find those who would, for a minute or two, silence the need in the spaces within for someone who resembles that lover lost or the lover never gained. Here you find the woman desperate for a child before her childbearing time finishes. Here, you find those escaping loneliness. The district of Pragma is wealthy; it takes the money from the desperate, and the desperate are plentiful. The uneducated traveler is wrong in his aversion; in the district of Pragma, many lonely Mapenzians find companionship and happiness.

The traveler is advised not to enter the district of Mania, the last of Mapanzia's districts of Love, and most certainly not to take a room in a tavern there. The night in Mania is disturbed by the cries of the lovelorn, calling up to the windows of those who have spurned them, like street cats in heat. This is the district of bars and nightclubs and anonymous rooms, stacked like boxes under orange street lights. We also find florists, and the purveyors of chocolate. There is no sense to Mania; nobody is as happy as when he or she has lost another and now has the need for a grand gesture, hopeful of a grand gesture in return. Lovers lurch together down the streets of Mania, hand in hand, in reality and imagination, seeking this hidden, wooded corner, or that candlelit bar, only to repeat the cycle of loss and regain. When lovers meet in Mania, before they argue the scent of vanilla and roses rises from the street. When they part, a city council-sponsored orchestra of violins plays modern music in minor tones.

Thus we have the five districts of Love of Mapanzia. The educated traveler may notice that a sixth is missing. This would be the district of Agape. The Mapanzians feel that their understanding of Love is so consummate that Agape, the highest love of all, may be represented by Mapanzia in general. They are, to some extent, correct. The traveler to Mapanzia leaves with an impression of high vaulted rooms and white walls and passion conducted correctly; of fair trade coffee at dinner parties and reasonable and intelligent conversation; and of good-natured jousting among affectionate and well balanced people.

He or she does not see the lonely people in attics, those too ugly to be loved, or too desperate; those too insecure, or those hurt once and catatonic as a result. He or she is not told of the failures and the damage, of the neglect and the rejection. He or she does not hear the wailing and the crying kept locked in hidden rooms and muffled through thick black doors. He or she does not know of the mutilation and the hurt of those Mapenzia keeps hidden. These people are Mapenzia's secret, even from itself, and Mapenzia does not see them, either.