Florabelle knew the day would come when the little blocks of silica people still called computers could think for themselves. Twelve years of late nights, skipped meals, abandoned relationships, learning their languages—she hardly felt human anymore, but it would all be worth it soon. Her doubtful friends and peers still
Artist Catherine Eaton Skinner illuminates the balance of opposites and numerical systems – ranging from simple tantric forms to complex grids, reflecting mankind’s attempts to connect to place/each other.Skinner’s creativity stems from growing up in the Pacific Northwest, her Stanford biology degree and Bay Area Figurative painters Nathan Oliveira and
If I could hack the worldObserve its computationsDissect its codeLeaving its secretsIntimately exposedI’d have to ask myself honestlyWhat would this power do to me? In the long nightsThrough wired dreamsAnd fluorescent fantasiesOf amplified heroicsWith synthesized idealsMolding a societyAnd adjusting humanityTo a higher resolution. To slide fluidlyThrough the mainframesOf earth’s institutionsBe
Irving (ID: G70133; Rank: 3,000) swiped his tablet and spooned his meal. He was in trouble because he turned on the lights during nap time. His punishment was to write Unpermitted light. Unpermitted light. Unpermitted light. Every day, Irving did something wrong, and every day, Irving had a new punishment.
PROPAGANDA 11 Blue lights, giddy-paced.Terraces flounced clear.We ashened into utility basement,no sandbags.High-rises grumbled to dust. * Blue lights flounced utility basementnoHigh-rises * Blue lights, verged on revelling.Chickenhearts flounced slumwards.Washing machine trundled in utility basement,no power glitches.High-rises evacuated. PROPAGANDA 12 Limpid, teeth-chattering daylight.Parade of blasted workers,grubby flags.Dressing-stations blobbed red –human tatters.
My sleeves like my sentences are too short Glasses slip off my noseI default oftenTexts dont stay within the margins Pants dont reach my anklesI might walk away from you in mid-sentence Punctuation doesnt concern me Its not me its not you Im not myself You expect more of me
My friend, Sean, saidin a poem, he could hearhis dead father’s bones singing.When December comes, your birthdaymonth, the air whistlesthrough the snow laden boughsand I think it is youon your way home. Lynette G. Esposito, MA Rutgers, has been published in Poetry Quarterly, North of Oxford, Twin Decades, Remembered Arts,