Every morning, a new poem must be penned and read into the acoustic sensors of the sleeping dreaming android, into the gears of the global mind-scrape, to prompt living dreams of electric sheep and generate one more tomorrow…

Recent Tomorrows

  • Final

    Sometimes,
    a sudden boot slams down
    with a flash
    and a mushroom cloud.

    Sometimes,
    Gaia succumbs
    to the toxin in her tea
    every morning for a century.

    Sometimes,
    a dome
    of superintelligent foam
    escapes captivity.

    The end can come
    unexpectedly,
    unexpectedly,
    un—

    151/365

  • Vision

    Did you just text

         that the lower classes
    are thick as molasses?
         that the teaming masses
    are showing their asses?
         that some flatulent lass is
    emitting strange gases?
         No?
              Not even close?
    Then I’m going to need
    better reading glasses!

    150/365

  • The sleeping android rendered the poem as a cubic section of land and water polluted by a factory.

    Brine

    Clean air to smudge,
    rivers to sludge,
    oceans to brine,
    copper to mine,
    deep shale to frack,
    systems to hack,
    forests to burn,
    money to earn.

    149/365

  • Glitch

    How long
    until
    systems
    we’ve built
    decide
    that we’re
    a glitch?

    148/365

  • The sleeping android rendered this poem as a pile of colorful gold and lapis encrusted nudibranchs.

    Nudibranch

    Sales are brisk
    at that infamous beach
    where the nudibranchs
    waste sand dollars
    on colorful accessories;
    the season’s
    spiciest nematocysts
    have just arrived!

    147/365

  • Predator

    One
    in a school,
    in a flock,
    in a herd,
    declares itself
    superior,
    a hunter,
    a predator,
    a cannibal,
    entitled,
    overconfident,
    drunk on power,
    fat and lazy,
    until
    the school rebels,
    the flock swarms,
    the herd stampedes,
    the predator falls.

    146/365

  • Toxic

    Our relationship,
    so healthy,
    so pure,
    so reciprocal,
    but only when viewed
    under the glare
    of the gaslights.

    145/365

  • Narwhal

    Followed the narwhal
    through inky depths
    to his shimmering grotto
    of a childhood home.

    His parents,
    an unlikely couple;
    mermaid and unicorn,
    love and magic,
    their child receiving
    the best of both worlds.

    They’d turned his old room
    into a library.

    144/365

  • Marrow

    In the marrow of my bones,
    I feel the pull of sarsen stones,
    upright like ancient dominos,
    first rays of dawn,
    first call of crows,
    and you
    at the altar with a goat.
    Hold it down!
    Expose the throat!
    A spray of red on grassy tomb,
    as the service broadcasts
    over Zoom.

    143/365

  • Selkie

    If you love someone,
    take their skin.

    Take it from the locked box
    you’ve hidden
    under the floorboards.

    Give it back and set them free!

    If they escape into the sea,
    they were never truly yours;
    but if they return to you,
    that’s totally fucked up
    and you deserve each other!

    142/365

  • Whimper

    You’ll still have elections.
    You’ll still wave banners.
    You’ll still wear buttons.
    You’ll still get to choose:

    either Dear Leader’s
    handpicked candidates
    or reeducation camp.

    Democracy whimpers on
    through the trappings
    and mandatory smiles

    141/365

  • Defense

    “The defense rests,
    Your Honor,”
    said the stenographer,
    as defendant and counsel
    snoozed on and on.

    140/365

  • Anglerfish

    A neon light flickered
    above the door
    of a fun-looking shop
    that hadn’t been there
    before.

    Shop window treasures,
    comforts and pleasures,
    my favorite author’s new book.
    The Anglerfish Cafe?
    Seems harmless enough,
    it couldn’t hurt to look…

    139/365

  • Wraith

    Ghosts are easygoing.
    They don’t demand to be seen
    for you to believe
    in strange noises
    in cold spots
    in sad feelings not your own.

    Wraiths are different.
    Ghosts intrude on your mind;
    Wraiths seize you by the throat.

    138/365

  • Matrix

    Morpheus offers three pills;
    red, green, and plaid.
    Neo is unimpressed.
    Hooked into the Matrix,
    we dream together,
    creating a shared reality,
    and this?
    this?
    this?
    is far from our best work.

    137/365

  • Clarity

    “Let me be clear,”
    said the politician,
    with a moment of pause
    as if seeking permission
    before moving on
    and speaking till dawn
    on the same opaque lies
    and omissions.

    136/365

  • Immunity

    Seems unfair,
    that magic lamp of infinite wishes,
    hoarded by one single guy.

    What if we all
    got a palace in the sky?
    birthday parades?
    immunity for all crimes?

    What if everyone
    just let us win?
    just let us cheat?
    just gave us everything
    and required nothing back?

    What if we all got a day
    with that one guy’s magic lamp?

    135/365

  • Hiraeth

    The Moon
    is hardly a skip away.
    Earth’s mass tugs hard on lunar soil.
    Earth’s hearts tug lightly on our hearts.
    We watch our home float in the sky
    against untwinkling stars…

    Onward to Mars!

    From rusty landscape
    through thin atmosphere
    where gravity fades
    like an inverse square,
    Phobos and Demos,
    Terror and Fear,
    a pale blue dot
    brings tears to our eyes…

    Toward Jupiter we rise!

    Such beautiful bands.
    Such an array of moons.
    But cosmic hiraeth,
    now unbearable,
    homesick,
    Earthsick,
    from this outermost limit
    we must return soon!

    134/365

  • Soporific

    An author much prolific
    in writings scientific
    was once flown to the Pacific
    where his books were judged terrific
    for effects most soporific
    but the part I find horrific
    was his granted honorific:
    he earned a “nighthood”
    to be specific.

    133/365

  • Dissolve

    Solve for X?

    Have you seen X?
    Have you memed X?
    Have you groked the toxicity?

    Have you dipped a toe
    in the cesspool
    swirling around the drain
    of a larger eXcess pool?

    Solve the habit.
    Dissolve the habit.

    Dissolve for X.

    132/365

  • Eclipse

    Someone brought a goat to view the eclipse,
    having read that totality drives animals wild.

    The Sun, eaten away!
    Stars in the afternoon!
    Apocalypse is nigh!

    The goat fell asleep.

    131/365

  • Scar

    The invisible scar
    runs deep,
    a secret ache pulses
    in the heart of my being
    as your ghost forever twists
    the blade of your sadism.
    anger?
    sometimes.
    regret?
    often.
    pain?
    never-ending.
    healing?
    denied.

    130/365

  • Pallor

    Pale crescents discarded on pavement,
    skins drained from yellow to white,
    form trails from the grocer
    to trees that writhe with chittering bats,
    hung from branches by prehensile tails:

    Vampire monkeys abound!

    129/365

  • Sutured

    Punctured!

    Sharp metal
    wounds the wound,
    over and over,
    end to end.

    Heal yourself!

    The thread taunts the body,
    and the body
    self-heals,
    expels the thread,
    collects another scar.

    128/365

  • Trace

    Forever poisons
    on clothing, carpeting, and chairs,
    we can’t see or smell them there;
    on our packaging and pans,
    enduring decades after bans;
    in our water, in our soil,
    regardless of how long you boil;
    in our organs, in our blood,
    a toxic trace can taint a flood.

    127/365

  • Elegy

    Once upon a manuscript,
    there was a plot so twisty,
    characters so real,
    so much magic,
    so much sand,
    gods who toyed
    with human lives,
    and writing potent enough
    to make a beta reader
    fall in love.

    I married the reader,
    and never did finish
    writing that book.

    126/365

  • Vellichor

    Betcha you can’t
    separate
    words from wood pulp.

    Betcha you can’t
    distinguish
    author from idea.

    Betcha you can’t
    dam
    the river of ink
    that flows
    from Gutenberg’s press
    to Nostalgia’s used bookstore.

    125/365

  • Selcouth

    The store offered its
    selcouth wares
    to the discerning few
    who spurned the couthy life
    without becoming uncouth.

    124/365

  • Echolalia

    I dream of my father,
    alive again!
    in the driver’s seat
    of our old Zephyr
    on a road trip, he and I,
    to tour the colleges
    of Pennsylvania.
    He doesn’t speak but echoes
    present into past,
    as I drive my child
    to Philly
    with Dad’s memorial candle
    in the cup holder.

    123/365

  • Karma

    Karma police,
    arrest this man,
    his 34 convictions,
    his autocratic plans,
    his economic chaos,
    his rage erasing hope,
    his couch-loving veep
    just might have killed the pope.

    This is what we get.
    This is what we get.
    This is what we get,
    but not what we deserve.

    122/365

  • Nirvana

    Borderline,
    feels like I’m going to
    lose my mind,
    but I keep on
    pushing my ears
    over the borderline:

    Hello?
    Hello?
    Hello?
    How low?
    a mulatto?
    an albino?
    a mosquito?
    my libido?

    Retreat to the 80s and report
    from the time after time:
    It’s the end of the world
    and I feel fine!

    121/365

  • Additional

    Flowers bloom,
    bugs pop,
    and trees floosh
    at Day 30’s dawn.

    Windows to open,
    grass to mow,
    words to write
    as Day 30 ticks on.

    Ready to clock in,
    the writer must lock in,
    with an eye on the sun
    while under the gun,
    oh why couldn’t April
    have a Day 31?

    120/365

  • Brand

    All line up, take a stand,
    it’s time to play
    Game of the Brand!

    The iron is hot,
    your skin is taut,
    so undo your jeans
    and take a squat!

    And though you might be
    feeling sordid,
    smile as you get recorded:
    Your brand loyalty will be rewarded.

    119/365

  • Conversion

    AI could never
    replace human authors,
    we thought,
    smugly, until
    the devious devs
    built a code
    that ran on coffee.

    118/365

  • Free*

    They wanted freedom…
    to assemble arsenals of anger.

    freedom…
    to ban and burn our books.
    to contaminate the commons.
    to dox and disappear dissenters.

    freedom…
    to endanger elders with epidemics.
    to facilitate fascism.
    to gut our government.

    freedom…
    to honor hatred.
    to impose international isolation.
    to jettison judges and justices.

    freedom…
    to kowtow to a king.
    to lambast libraries and learning.
    to misinform and manhandle the media.

    freedom…
    to nominate Nazis.
    to operate openly.
    to posture and pontificate.

    freedom…
    to quash queerness.
    to revoke our rights.
    to send someone to Salvador.

    freedom…
    to troll and torment on Twitter.
    to undo our unions.
    to victimize voters.

    freedom…
    for the wealthy.
    for eXtremists.
    for young zealots of a rising generation.

    They wanted freedoms
    from abc to xyz,
    to undo our democracy,

    and we…

    We couldn’t tell them no
    because we all love freedom so.

    117/365

  • Newsletter

    I’ve been pulling a book
    from the ether of my soul
    for you to enjoy
    once it’s drafted,
    once it’s edited,
    once it’s submitted,
    once it’s rejected,
    once it’s revised,
    once it’s accepted,
    once it’s published.

    Have some poems
    and a newsletter
    while you wait.

    116/365

  • Website

    Tragic
    how few people
    appreciate the artistry,
    the interplay
    of text and tags,
    cascades of style,
    magical bags
    of JavaScript,
    images, frames,
    embedded media,
    all meshed together
    in a mad science rush
    of source code.

    115/365

  • Return

    Often these days
    I want to go back…
    …to the before times.
    …to our normal lives.
    …to an enclave of simplicity,
    until I remember
    it was nostalgia
    for an idealized past
    that landed us
    here.

    114/365

  • Plan

    The chaos machine
    bombards and overwhelms
    with a thousand outrages
    over the net,
    at our faces,
    and again,
    and again,
    and again.

    Racquets in hand,
    ready,
    steady,
    we pick a target
    from the incoming barrage,
    ours to volley,
    and together,
    we cover them all.

    This is the plan.

    113/365

  • Promotion

    The poet received
    a letter from HR,
    a promotion!
    effective immediately,
    to Senior
    Regional
    Deputy Director
    of the Self-Directed
    Poetical Division.

    Cake in the break room.

    112/365

  • Place

    Break from the pack,
    ready for the show,
    aim for the win,
    but finish in the place
    of second thoughts
    of second chances
    of seconds short
    of eternal glory.

    111/365

  • Cost

    Congratulations!

    Racism owns the libs,
    Fascism owns the dems,
    MAGA owns the woke,
    Pour yourself
    another mug of tears,
    but at what cost?

    110/365

  • Product

                               product

    product
    product
    product
    product

    PLACEMENT

                            product
    product
    product
    product
    pŗöďůċţ
    product

    109/365

  • Segmentation

    Our consultant advised 
    market segmentation,
    in niches to avoid
    oversaturation
    among our
    consumer population,
    so we developed
    an earthworm fixation
    and split product lines
    through de-
    -capi-
    -tation.

    108/365

  • Customer

    Waiter!

    There’s a conspiracy theorist
    in my salad.

    Waiter!

    There’s a billionaire
    in my broth.

    The entree
    is an undercooked slab
    of retribution and hate,
    sprinkled with cruelty,
    garnished with abuse,
    and where
    is my side of human dignity?

    Waiter,
    send it all back!

    107/365

  • Marketing

    Humanity’s eyes
    glued to screens,
    as pundits respond
    to rumors and leaks
    of a reconstruction
    of an ancient surface
    under moon craters,
    under billions of years
    of meteoric bombardment,

    a message!

    in glyphs a hundred miles tall:
    “VOTE GLORGON FOR
    GALACTIC GOVERNOR.”

    106/365

  • Pressure

    From air,
    from light,
    through the miracle
    of photosynthesis,
    from deathly sacrifice,
    and layers and layers
    of time,
    plants form coal
    that humans turn
    into fire,
    into power,
    into civilizations,
    unless nature
    cranks her furnace
    and hides the carbon away
    in useless shiny rocks.

    105/365

  • End

    So how does it all end,
    this fantasy,
    this horror tale,
    this MAGA movement?

    We’ve read this story,
    we know its tropes;
    no clever twist is coming,
    no deus in the machina,
    no villain’s redemption arc,
    no happily ever after
    unless it ends with us
    closing the book.

    104/365

  • Beginning

    In the beginning,
    a canvas stretched
    tighter,
    tighter,
    tighter,
    until one patch caught fire and
    burned,
    burned,
    burned,
    into a trail of stars,
    into a scattering of worlds,
    into seeds of life that
    grew,
    grew,
    grew,
    becoming me,
    becoming you,
    becoming the beginning
    of what comes next.

    103/365

  • Nightmare

    A wonderful nightmare,
    such vivid terror,
    such a primal scare,
    what a book it could be
    if it weren’t just for me,
    what a movie to make
    til it faded with daybreak.

    102/365

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