1/ The end of a beginning
Given each organism as a biochemical algorithm
Your life is a programed process proving
Your consciousness is actually far less
Valuable than a fucking Frankenstein’s AI
2/ Avihs || Vishnu
Mornings || they disperse || beyond || the corn
Fields, || separately. ||Sunday
She || throws
Her partner’s computer || (midnight)
Into the garage.|| George ||who
In many || a city || upgraded || his software
Upgraded || hers.
They will || stop over || an island
Separately.|| Your son
Hated || all || mushrooms
George mentions – do you recall || yourself?
To a single mind,|| their spirits || evaporate
3/ The beginning of an end
Through human-computer interface
My mind has become part of a robot
While the robot part of me
As data exchanges with my consciousness
Or flow between each other on their own
Where can I find my true self?
(Yuan Changming hails with Allen Yuan from poetrypacific.blogspot.ca. Credits include Pushcart nominations besides appearances in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17) & BestNewPoemsOnline, among others. Recently, Yuan published his eleventh chapbook Limerence, and served on the jury for Canada's 44th National Magazine Awards (poetry category).
Hymn of Silence
Partly drawn curtains
reveal sun and traffic
outside your room,
as the doctor explains
the spreading melanoma,
mouthing numbers fewer
than our months together.
The echoes of his steps
recede down the hall;
I watch from the doorway
your face soft, serene.
You sleep, my hand
hovers over your shoulder
in a quest to re-discover
the land your body forms,
to recapture the time
we re-defined refuge
within this rich expanse.
There is an opening
in what seems like mist
Ode to a Nurse's Touch
So, this is what it's come to?
into a passive state,
at the hands of a stranger
centering the x-ray apparatus
over my chest.
at the silken touch
of her fingers;
her generous smile
strains at the tension
fringe of streetlights shimmer;
she walks to her green Nova,
by her boyfriend.
I imagine her
venting an icy sigh
as she recalls me
"The moon lives
in the lining of your skin,"
while she helped me
back into the wheelchair.
Gypsies and Your Emergency
The gypsies, on the outskirts
of your beliefs,
hold flaming threads
You probe unordinary dawnings;
the ceremony of bright priestly steel
washes your veins.
Those who have come late
to your festival of sweet dying
search the traveled street;
the lights of a ghostly girl’s eyes
lead them through a snowstorm
of the future, as your memory-blinded love
sings with one too articulate angel
late of a shining town, who whispers
soon, yes, soon
perhaps with the gleaming liquid key
you’ll set loose in this long
street-stair darkness tides of joy
and sing dancing children
through expanded time.
But your cargo is unloaded
the wagon wheels are turning
and this unblessed home
now is a haven
for the emergency
you once worshipped,
and the sadness torn loose
from echoes of the moon.
(RC James lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Previously, he lived in South America for twenty years and has a bilingual volume of his poetry and photographs at the Biblioteque Nacional de Colombia. He has works at Sonic Boom, Thimble, Flashes of Brilliance, and Open Door Poetry Magazine.)
From Now And Here
This time next year
some of us will have surrendered
to the weakness of the flesh.
This time next year
you’ll feel twelve months heavier.
Your pockets, and head, lighter.
One of us will be missing a finger.
One will dare risk looking
into the smelted core of the divine.
Another will have forsaken emotion.
Three hundred and sixty odd
days and nights from now and here.
The X minutes and Y seconds.
An algebra of living mass.
A fatty math of bloodied tissues.
Which means this time next year
we’ll all be farther along the crooked path.
New scars will have formed.
Choices will have proved themselves
to be neither right nor wrong.
We’ll have made some big decisions,
the repercussions only then apparent.
Some will have had their molecules shattered,
their ashes scattered in a green river.
Some of us will carry a child
they’d never guessed would have existed.
Next year at this time –
the same stars in the same sky,
but everything will seem different.
I’ve heard how time changes everything.
I’m learning that change matters.
Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with poems published in hundreds of magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His books are ‘The So-Called Sonnets (Silenced Press); ‘An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy; (Cawing Crow Press) and ‘Like As If” (Pski’s Porch), Hearsay (The Poet’s Haven).
The Beautiful Space-