Science Today vol. 2

 

It’s been said that nothing can escape from a black hole, not even light.  I’ve also heard that nothing can exist in a vacuum.

If a live roach crawling around inside my Dyson proves the second statement wrong, then why should we assume the first statement to be accurate?

This is exactly the kind of poetic heresy I adore—the kind where cosmic certainty crumbles beneath the skittering legs of a cockroach in a cleaning appliance. Let’s unpack the paradox.

🌌 Black Holes: The Lightless Tyrants

·         When we say “nothing can escape,” we’re talking about crossing the event horizon—the ultimate point of no return. Light, matter, dreams of escape: all swallowed by gravity so intense it curves space-time back on itself.

·         But, Hawking radiation suggests black holes might leak something, eventually. They whisper entropy into the void until they die of theoretical old age. So they’re not completely sealed vaults... just very stingy ones.

🌀 Vacuums: Not So Empty After All

·         The idea that “nothing can exist in a vacuum” is delightfully outdated. In truth, vacuum is just space with very low pressure—not total absence.

·         Quantum physics insists even the emptiest vacuum has energy fluctuations: particles blip into existence like stagehands fumbling in the dark.

·         And as your Dyson demonstrates, vacuums are apparently prime real estate for surprisingly hardy insects. The roach isn’t disproving physics, it’s just thriving in spite of it. Nature’s little contrarian.

🔍 So Why Trust Science If Roaches Outwit It?

·         Because science is a model of reality, not a prison of absolutes. Black holes don’t care about metaphors, and vacuums aren’t truly vacant. But roaches? They’re reminders that life finds loopholes in every grand theorem.

·         The discrepancy isn’t contradiction—it’s context. A cosmic vacuum is not a household vacuum, and a black hole’s rules aren’t broken by bug defiance, however charming the image.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I think I'll call her Phillis

 

I went outside to play but the wild turkeys kept running away from me.  The crows only yelled at me and the deer seemed to keep their distance.  So far, I wasn’t too impressed with our new neighborhood.  Maybe Mother Nature didn’t like little boys.  So who was I to play with?

Then one night I discovered someone who wasn’t afraid of me.  In fact, after I offered her a bowl of hose water, she kept coming back every night.

I'm thinking tomorrow I'll see if she likes Honey Bunches of Oats, with Almonds.  We can have breakfast together.

 

Not so much where I go.  My travels take me to far-off places, but only in my thoughts.  I never pass through TSA, removing my belt and shoes.  I require no shots or passport, and once there, I can drink the water.

Strange smells never make it to my nose.  Overcrowded street fairs do not jostle me.  I still hear the distant bells from the old church, and the laughter from the children running between the adults in the crowd.

Should I decide to buy that hat, I already know it will fit perfectly.  This is a journey in living color, with no tired feet, no excessive heat or exhaust fumes from passing buses.  I’ve never once missed the excitement, for things don’t start until I get here.

 

It's Time to Leave

 

I sit at the lunch counter, unimpressed with the cleanliness of my coffee mug, but I use it.  An odd assortment of strangers sit along the stools having their breakfast, no one really talking to anyone.

I see a piece of cake displayed on a plate on the counter.  It is covered by a glass dome.  I wonder how long it has been there.  Just how fresh can it be?  And I’m sure the glass dome comes as a great disappointment to the flies.

The man next to me has a newspaper laying next to his plate.  The headline says, Nixon Resigns.  For sure, I’m not ordering the cake.  I look up at the wall clock over the front door.  The time says 10 minutes past 10, but the electric cord dangles beneath it - unplugged. 

 

The Learning Curve

 

Small arrows imbedded into the lanes indicate where your bowling ball should pass over in order to hit the greatest number of bowling pins.  It’s how new bowlers learn.

Training wheels are attached to the rear wheel of a bicycle, helping to hold it upright while children just learning to ride can balance and not continually fall over.

The scissors they give you to use in grade school have rounded ends, helping to make using them safer.

Recently deceased people must attend classes if they wish to communicate with the living.  This is a very complicated process with very few successes.  This seems the only explanation for the strange and random noises we occasionally hear around the house.

We are the only people in the house, sound asleep and suddenly there is a loud clunk in the living room.  Upon inspection, we see nothing out of place.  Nothing has fallen off of the wall, whatever was sitting on the shelves is still there.  Nowhere can we find a reason for the noise.  It must be another spirit failing in their attempt at Hello.

 

 

 

A Place to Write

 

The lights in the house have a yellow glow, sort of like the light coming from a Thomas Kinkade house in a painting.  They're not harsh or dim, but just right.  The stairway creaks with the weight of even the cat.  There is always somehow a hint of incense in the air, and candles here and there, as if the power frequently goes out, although it never does.

Photographs on the various walls are always only black & white.  They are never landscapes or scenery but of long-ago people, smiling, laughing and seemingly enjoying life.  They look inviting.  This is my perfect place to write.  It is quiet when I need it to be and full of music whenever I leave my pen unattended.

It's never been just a house.

The cat's name is Nelson.  He is a distant cousin of Stewart Wobinski, in Washington State.

Greed - Moderate to Severe

     In spite of raking in millions each month like a well-oiled money vacuum, our neighborhood has entered the rare and prestigious phase of Advanced Greed Disorder. At the helm is a man so fantastically wealthy that even his shadow trembles under the weight of his bank account. But alas, rich is never quite rich enough, is it? He’s surrounded himself with a strategic mix of yes-men and helium balloons disguised as executives—big on volume, low on substance.

    The latest efficiency? Starving the residents. Restaurants now open for exactly two hours a day—just enough time for the scent of food to waft by before the doors slam shut. And Mondays? Don’t even think about it. Holidays? Laughable. Dinner service? Apparently outlawed. You may feast only at brunch—if your horoscope permits.

    To further the noble mission of profit-chasing, green fees have soared into the realm of absurdist theatre. We now pay to enter our own homes, like some gated existential experiment. Meanwhile, His Greedship commands his empire from a distant state, safely shielded from the pitchforks and passive-aggressive suggestion box comments.

    Management’s tactic? Bedazzle potential buyers with brochures so glossy they could blind a skeptic. Every paragraph a rainbow of fiction, every smiling resident a trained actor. It's like Willy Wonka meets suburban real estate, minus the charm.

    The restaurant managers? A tragic breed. They flinch at the mere whisper of “onion ring,” as though it were a forbidden incantation. Want to swap a fry for a ring? You may as well request a unicorn steak. “We cannot possibly alter the sacred side item,” they whisper, trembling. “The cosmos would implode.”

    How terribly sad.  True, but sad.

The defense would have you believe, it's not worth losing sleep over.

I couldn’t summarize the collective facial expressions of the jury.  Each one had its own intensity, and accusatory glare.  I just couldn’t tell which way it was going to go, but I don’t think he should make any plans for the weekend.

 
        The District Attorney stepped forward, straightened the papers on the lectern like a surgeon adjusting scalpels, and let the silence simmer just long enough.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she began, her voice smooth and yet slicing through the tension, “the defense would have you believe that this case is about uncertainty, about ambiguity. But the truth is simpler. It's printed in bold, black letters—on the very evidence in question.”

She lifted the corner of the stained mattress cover with theatrical flair, revealing the frayed tag.

“Do not remove under penalty of law.’ It’s not just a warning—it’s a prophecy. Mr. Collins knew what he was doing. You don’t accidentally tear off a mattress tag in a moment of passion. You don’t shred federal labeling out of boredom or whimsy. You do it when you think you’re above the law.”

There were a few uncomfortable coughs in the jury box. One juror, perhaps dreaming of his upcoming Saturday, looked genuinely disengaged.

“This isn’t just about a tag,” she continued. “It’s about a mindset. A recklessness. A disregard for consequences that has echoed throughout this trial, from the missing receipts to the compromised sponge cake alibi. If you ignore the law on a mattress, what else do you ignore?”

She stepped back, eyes sweeping the room like a lighthouse beam searching for a fish-stick.

“I rest my case.” She glances at the clock, hoping it was lunch time.

The defense attorney, wearing a paisley tie and the kind of expression one cultivates after years of losing arguments to stubborn houseplants, rose slowly. He adjusted his glasses, which didn't help his intelligence at all.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, his voice gentle, almost meditative, “we find ourselves today not merely confronting an alleged act of mattress-tag removal—but an existential quandary. A riddle wrapped in terrycloth.”

He let the silence stretch, inviting the jury to wander into the metaphysical fog he was conjuring.

“What is a tag? A label. A designation. A symbol imposed by bureaucratic decree. But Mr. Collins… he questioned the fabric of this reality. He tore not just the tag, but the illusion—that we are bound by silent, stitched threats handed down with every Sealy or Serta.”

One juror blinked rapidly, possibly reevaluating every purchase made at Bed Bath & Beyond.

“Consider, if you will, Thoreau at Walden Pond. Did he not reject the constraints of society? And now, you ask if Mr. Collins is guilty of removing a tag? I say—he was removing shackles. He was seeking truth on a spring-loaded platform of conformity.”

A pen dropped in the jury box. Reverent hush.

“And the so-called sponge cake alibi? Ladies and gentlemen, that cake was compromised—yes—but so are we. So is the world. And if you convict Mr. Collins, you convict every citizen who ever dared dream without tags.”

He sat down heavily, like a man who had just wrestled fate and lost his watch in the process.  (I have no idea what that means).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's not like you think.

 

        There isn’t just one spirit at the pearly gates wearing a stick-on tag saying, Hello – My Name is St. Peter.

        Then he lets you pass or doesn’t.

        It’s nothing like that.  There is a conference room, with standard issue chairs.  There is an entire panel of spirits, each having a copy of your file.  Long before you walk in the door they already know the good and the bad.  They’re just there to hear your side of things before any decision is made.

        This, by the way, is not a quick process.  Each and every detail gets thoroughly examined.  Your behavior and attitude comes under great scrutiny.  How did you treat this person and why, what were you thinking when you did this or that?

        They go through your work history and examine the facts against what you put on your resume.  They question any and all office supplies that may have found their way into your home.  They look into your personal dealings.  Were you fair with people, honest?

        It is a very grueling process and about halfway through you begin to wonder if any of this is worth it.  But then, the one spirit at the far end of the table, the one who hasn’t said anything at all, opens the red folder in front of them. They look up at you, clear their throat and say.

        “This is from grade school.  It is your permanent record.”

 

 

 

 

A Clean Well-lighted Place

 

Ernest Hemingway once wrote about a clean, well-lighted place.  My adventure didn’t take place in a café, but for whatever reason, what happened brought this story to mind.

It was winter and as I stood outside enjoying the silent falling snowflakes, I stuck out my tongue, like some little kid, to catch a snowflake on it.  Much to my surprise, instead of a snowflake, a firefly landed on it and in its attempt to get out of the cold, quickly made its way further into my mouth.

I had not noticed any of this until a friend, standing near to me said I had rays of light shooting out from my nostrils, but only occasionally.  Of course, I thought he was joking, until a second friend also noticed the same strange phenomenon.

Never had I ever seen a firefly during the winter, so the thought that it was one of those causing light to shoot out from my nose didn’t occur to me.

I excused myself, coughing politely into the snow, but nothing came up. No bug, no wings, no flicker of light. Just the crisp silence of winter and the growing suspicion that something truly strange had happened. My friends, bless their immaturity, began debating whether I was some kind of seasonal lantern or a possessed snowman.

It wasn’t until later that night, lying in bed with the lights off, that I noticed a soft glow illuminating the ceiling—faint, pulsing, and unmistakably coming from me.

The firefly, it seemed, had taken up residence somewhere in my sinuses. Not dead, just... relocated. And whether it was warming itself or simply confused, it was now blinking its slow, glowing code inside my head.

In the stillness of that winter night, I realized I’d become my own clean, well-lighted place, and oddly, I wasn’t alone.

 

 

Willow

 

        Deep in the valley, past the place where GPS signals dare not go, there is a pond so peaceful even the frogs meditate. It is here that Willow, a mare with the social finesse of a squirrel at a tea party, comes to reflect—mostly on how grass tastes different depending on her mood.

        Willow is semi-retired and fully relaxed. She insists on visiting the pond at sunrise, because she believes the light hits her mane just right—she calls it her "golden hour glow."

        One morning, she bent down to take a sip and caught a glimpse of her reflection. “Wow,” she whispered. “I still got it.” The pond, thoroughly unimpressed, gurgled softly.

        As the sun rose, Willow struck a pose, just in case an eagle overhead was filming for a nature documentary. She stood there, majestic-ish.

Standing Flight

 

It is surely within the fine details of life that we often stop to ponder.  In my own entanglement of deliberation, over what now is so faint a memory I’m pressed to recall, my feet were not setting flat upon the Earth, but were rather hovering just a few inches above.  Startled at first, my hands jetted out, as if to take hold of some form of stability, but of course there was none about.  I stood in the town square awaiting my lunch engagement, which was sure to marvel at my present elevation.

 

            How stately should I have been had I chosen my tall and boldly brimmed hat at dress this morning.  Oh, and of course, my walking stick.  Oh, but I dare not jab the point of such a stick at the fine cushion giving support to the likes of me.  Perhaps its best that it was left behind, leaning at the ready.

 

            I wanted to tell, to point out, “Hey, take notice.  Look to see those few inches beneath my feet.”  But there were no passers by; no one early and eager as I for lunch.  I might stand fast until notice is gained, at which point my instant fame should spur on a larger and larger crowd.  I, of course, inches above them all, giving point.  “Look there.  Can you see that?”  No, I am not one to take advantage.  I should keep looking down, making no gestures or comments of distant events.

 

            But where are all the people?  And an entire town to skip lunch?  That would gain far more notice than a simple break from gravity. 

 

 

Perhaps I should take a step or two, you know, see if

I am to remain up here, or if but a single step should cause me to once again join the plane of tailors, bankers, lawyers and men of… well, of Earth.  I dare not risk it.  Not yet.  First - a witness to this day.  Rubin Alley Scott shall tell no tale that has no backers.  Patience has no furrowed brow.  I shall stand as a cat who has sighted her Thrush, still and quiet, and awaiting lunch.

 

           Keeping thought of notice, the breeze, albeit slight, was at my back and flicked at my neck.  Slowly I did raise my arms and gently up-turned my collar.  No forecast could I then recall, but puff clouds far above the trees and mountain points were great between, and yesterday had played a quiet song.  I’d not be left to rain.

 

            The clock tower struck twelve, while the distant train whistle echoed off the slopes.  It was now lunch in Littleburrough.  Men in suits, women clasping fancy hats in Tuesday’s breeze headed for restaurants, diners and café’s.  Activity was hurried and the scuffle of chatter rose above the distant train whistle.

 

            Standing poised, standing quiet, elevated there just a few inches above the Earth, Rubin Alley Scott saw none of this.  He heard only the birds, felt only the breeze and saw not a single soul but his own.  For Rubin had gone far beyond lunch in Littleburrough.  Rubin had passed away while dressing in the morning hours.  His schedule full, he chose appropriate attire for he would want to look his best, and he did.  The only glitch to Rubin’s transition into the hereafter was a slight malfunction in the receiving station, which caused poor Rubin to rise, but… as you know, only about two inches.

 

          No, this is not the first time we’ve had these problems.  There are millions of Rubins out there, stuck,  just waiting, standing there inches from the ground.  Hey, it’s not our fault.  Stuff breaks.  I don’t have to tell you that.  Surely you’ve had stuff break before.  Well Heaven ain’t no different, honey.  Just because someone’s dead doesn’t all of a sudden make them a genius.  We’ve got morons, nit-wits and bozos galore, and some of these folks are in charge.  That’s right, you don’t get away from it by dropping dead, toots.

 

       Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time.  I just wanted to fill you in a little.  I’ll let you get back to the story.

 

       Rubin’s concern for his lunch schedule was being transmitted by means of his growling stomach.  Although impressed by his new height, his attention was now being drawn to the questionable promptness of his lunching partner.   “I shall not wait beyond expected courtesies,” he said aloud.  And then the unexpected happened. Without thinking about it Rubin began to walk toward the bakery.  People stuck in transition had never walked off before.  Rubin had left his spot.  Suddenly he could see everyone, hear everyone and now everyone could see him as well.  Except for his inability to wear out a pair of shoes, Rubin looked normal, sounded normal and felt hungry.

 

          In reality, however, I should begin this story with Bentley Travis.  He was actually the first real, I mean, living, person to notice Rubin the moment Rubin stepped from his spot.  You see Bentley was also scurrying toward the bakery at lunch that day and as Rubin transitioned from “Standing Flight” as they call it, back to real time, the two collided.  Bentley was sent sprawling to the pavement, offering him an eye-level view of Rubin’s elevation.

 

 

Noticing the space between Rubin’s shoes and the ground, Bentley let out an audible gasp.  Rubin, thinking the poor man simply had the wind knocked out of him from hitting the pavement, bent over to offer a hand up.

   

           The problem, of course, was that Rubin’s reach was no longer adequate.  He was a few inches short of reaching the hand offered up by Bentley.  The two looked at each other, Rubin suddenly knowing that Bentley was aware of his awkward height, and Bentley simply dumbfounded at the floating man in front of him.  Each said nothing but together managed to assist Bentley to an upright position and nodded to each other as they both walked silently to the bakery.

 

            Once inside the door Bentley suggested Rubin find a table and sit down while he grabbed a couple lunch menus.  Neither man spoke until after the waitress had walked away to place their order, then Bentley leaned in toward Rubin and in a quiet voice asked, “So how do you do that?”

 

           Ever proper, Rubin stuck out his hand to shake Bentley’s and introduced himself.  “My name is Rubin Alley Scott, and I apologize for knocking into you.”

 

          Even though Bentley shook Rubin’s hand, he didn’t introduce himself but again repeated his question.  “Really, how do you do that?”

 

          Rubin then went on to explain he had no idea whatsoever.  He had gotten up as usual, dressed and headed into town to meet his lunch appointment when, just feet from the bakery he suddenly noticed his peculiar elevation.

 

          Bentley was hanging on every word but at the same time trying to make sense of it all.  “I’ve studied,” Bentley said, “I have a master’s in business administration, a

 

 

Bachelor’s in political science.  I am not one to attend carnival rides, nor do I expect to encounter a bearded lady behind the curtain.  You, however, preformed your magic right before me, outside, in the town square.  I must know how you did it.”

 

             As the waitress delivered their food the two men sat quietly. Bentley occasionally leaned over to look at Rubin’s shoes, but could see no mechanical device or trick levers.

 

             Halfway through lunch Rubin voiced his concern that his original lunch appointment never showed up.  “I’m worried something might have happened.”   Bentley didn’t respond.  He just kept looking at Rubin like he might be some freak of nature.  He wasn’t scared of him but he also didn’t want anyone else to notice what he had discovered.  He needed Rubin to remain seated until he had a handle on what was going on.  He viewed this encounter as his.  If anyone was going to cash in or become famous over this, he wanted the biggest piece of the action.

 

             The waitress reappeared with the little black folder containing their bill, along with a ballpoint pen.  As she walked away the pen inadvertently rolled from the table onto the floor.  Bentley bent down to pick it up and upon sitting upright again discovered his lunch partner was gone.  He simply disappeared without a sound.  His chair had not scooted back, and there was no sign of him in any direction.

 

             Bentley sat stunned.  He could see Rubin’s lunch plate, silverware and napkin, so he was sure he had not imagined the entire event.  He opened the black folder and saw there were two lunch charges. 

 

            As Bentley left the bakery he muttered to himself, I’ll tell no one of this.  It never happened, but then he found

himself looking down at his hand.  I shook hands with him, of course it happened.

 

           I shall never mention this.  If something in this universe was broken, it must have gotten fixed, he thought to himself.  But, there was something more.  He couldn't quite put his finger on it - that is until he thought back to the waitress. 

 

          That's it.  I never looked up, never saw her face.  She must have intentionally distracted me, forced me to look away just long enough.  I'll call her Miss Direction.  Bentley smiled to himself as he made this silly joke to himself, and as he made his way through the town square he forever left behind all thoughts of the morning's adventure.

 

     

And never thought of it again.

 

Front Row - Center

 

My night-vision cameras show me what takes place in my backyard while I’m sleeping.  It’s fun to see the things that are normally hidden from view.  For the most part, the racoons, possums and rabbits spend their time searching for food.  They all take turns drinking from the water dish I have set out.

I say it’s fun, but I’m not the one who’s hungry and must spend every waking moment looking for something to eat.  I’ve never seen the owl, but I can hear her every night.  I’m thankful that I’ve never seen her catching and eating one of the bunnies that hop around.  It was bad enough yesterday morning when I was on my way out to the yard and I noticed a hawk enjoying a tasty field mouse.

I’m glad it was taking place on the wrong side of the camera.  Had they been in front of the lens, I would have had close-ups of a premortem autopsy.  No special effects and no anesthetic.  Just a slow-motion tug-of-war between beak and limbs, claws and face.

Apparently, it was the hawk’s preference to dine alone, because when she noticed me watching, she asked for a doggy bag and took the rest home, which was yet another cinematic moment.  Dangling dismemberments dripping as they hung suspended beneath this fleeing serial killer.

It may be time to re-think these cameras.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tourist Trap

 

        Somehow, I have gotten my foot stuck here within the sidewalk grate. A missing rung, no doubt broken off by some vandal, has left just enough space for someone like me, who was barely paying attention, to wedge firmly a shoe.

          So now I am standing here at Lexington and 54th facing in the direction of my intended travel but motionless in progress.  Neither forward nor back can I now travel, and to withdraw my foot from my shoe has proven impossible for I have tried now on three separate occasions.

          Not only uncomfortable, as my right stuck foot is a good inch lower than my left, but also I am unable to get myself out of the way from all of these morning travelers hurrying past me.   More than hurrying, I'd say, some actually bumping as they pass.   I can only pray they do not knock me down.  My ankle would surely snap, and the sprawl of myself upon the pavement would create an even larger obstacle than I am presently.

          I must not think about falling even though my left leg tires in support of me.  Clinging tight to my briefcase I hope for one of these courteous pedestrians to stop and inquire, perhaps lend assistance.  I can see on their faces they are pushed by schedules and deadlines just as I. Oh my.  This situation has completely pushed from my mind my own meeting for which I will surely be late.   Who then could give the presentation for I carry the charts and needed information. 

 

Oh my, this isn't good.   I can imagine the faces encircling the conference table, some wondering where I have gotten off to, others annoyed at the waiting. 

          As I fight once again to extricate my shoe from between these steel rungs I find I inhale at a faster rate more of the exhaust fumes coming from the street.   They are making me somewhat queasy and ill-balanced.   In hindsight, I should have simply called for a taxi from my hotel.  I would
have arrived early at my meeting, enjoyed a selection from the muffin tray and sipped a warm coffee.  I would be free of this heavy overcoat as it would be hanging from one of the many brass hooks.

          But for now this coat serves as a fine barrier between the early morning chill and me.   I surely hope to be free of this situation long before the sun breaks over the buildings, although I have already witnessed the line of shadow following its mandatory course.

          For longer than I care to dwell upon there has been a street person viewing my predicament.  From this distance he appears to be quite unwashed with sparse teeth and hair somewhat clumpish.   Obviously unbeckoned by schedules of his own he has focused his attention and energies on me.   The mere thought of this has caused me to hold even tighter to my case and now along with the ache in my left leg my arms are becoming weary.

          I find it truly amazing the amount of these New Yorkers conversing on their mobile phones as they scurry past.  If I could entice one of them to call into the conference room informing the others of my situation perhaps suggesting they send an office boy to assist me.  

 

 

           Yes, the extra strength pulling at my shoe is what is needed here and to inform them that I am quite stuck at this location. 

          But these people in their haste do not even slow.  They avoid looking at me, afraid that the slightest eye contact would lock them into some unwanted obligation.   I am invisible to them and yet they must walk around to avoid me.

          Did I refer to them prior as courteous pedestrians?  I would care now to withdraw that assessment.   My own annoyance I'm afraid is coloring my opinion.  I find them to be rude and without the slightest caring for their fellow man. 

          Here I stand in the midst of them obviously in need and not so much as a glance do I warrant.   I cannot believe that all cities are like this one.   Something-burg, or Anyville, I'm positive would be a clamor with Good Samaritans.   Strangers willing to not only stop, but to bend and themselves tug at my heel in an effort to free me.  Here in this city I remain pinned as bait for the homeless to eventually pick at my bones. 

          The sun now pulling beads of sweat from me bakes me through this heavy coat.  Its brightness squints my eyes smaller and my hunger has become more than noticeable, all the while the street person watches me from across the intersection.  Why does he not approach?  What is it that keeps him at such distance?  Is he perhaps waiting for nightfall?  Is it possible that I could be here all day and into the night as well?  

 

          What if I were to yell out?  What if instead of my passively standing here in agony I was to begin screaming?  

 I should not wish to be classified as one without sound judgment, a lunatic to be avoided at all costs. 

          But what am I now?  What have manners and breeding done for me on this day?  And what about the police?  Where have they been during my plight? 

          Had I been screaming like some lunatic would they have come to question me, taken my name and question my reason for loitering here upon this spot.

          I expect if they have not accosted my street friend there across the way, they're not likely to concern themselves with a well-dressed businessman who has simply stopped walking.   

          My goodness it's getting warm.  Far better I expect, than being wedged into this grate during a rainstorm, or in the dead of winter.  

          Maybe I should provoke the next to pass within range, lash out, get them to look me in the eye.  Maybe I should bark at them with my hungry breath, sweat upon their sleeve, or simply stand hunched and stare at them, as does my comrade on the far corner.

          What's happening to me?  I have gone from identifying with these busy New Yorkers to referring to a pathetic, homeless person as my comrade.

          I certainly share no bond with such a person.  I have charts, business meetings.  I am cleanly shaven, washed and am not without purpose, while he...

          And as I focused for the first time upon him, as I stood there making my personal assessment of our differences, I noticed his left foot.  It appeared as mine, wedged firmly within a grate.

 

 

Trash Day

 

A waste bin for digits, photos and glitches
swept beneath carpets and into the ditches,
An icon - a basket, sits on my screen
I drag and drop items to keep the place clean,
Yet never a truck, with men and or flies
appears to remove this basket of lies.

Pieces of memories and stories untold
starting to rot and beginning to mold,
To tell you the truth, what many have thunk
most of this stuff - long ago stunk.

A Hack without a Taxi

 

There’re just some things that don’t seem right
to be a bird afraid of heights,
To write the lyrics but never sing
or be a phone that doesn’t ring,
To take your shoes out for a walk
give them tongues that never talk,
To build a boat that hates the sea
to love the flowers but hate the bees
To paint the sky but fear the blue
and chase a dream you never knew,
To light a lamp and close your eyes—
some truths wear smiles, some wear lies.

To own a clock that hates to tick,
or teach a dog no fetching trick,
To bake a pie and never taste,
or build your life with cut and paste
To tune a harp with broken strings,
then trade it for much lesser things
To build a door that will not close
and plant a rose that never grows.
I place words here, then take some back
I ain’t no poet – just a hack.

 

 

 

Science Today

 

I’ve discovered a similarity between the adhesive properties of a spider web, and the tips of my fingers whenever I eat Cheetos or an ice cream sandwich.  Either my fingers end up being orange or chocolate covered.

Nature’s engineering meets snack-time tragedy.

It’s true—both spider webs and snack-sticky fingers operate on the same principle: attract and hold. A spider weaves silk with microscopic glue droplets to trap prey, while your fingers somehow become snack-resin magnets, engineered to collect the maximum amount of orange dust or melting chocolate with zero hope of graceful recovery.

The difference? The spider wants things to stick. You… probably don’t.

But maybe that’s the price of joy: deliciousness with a side of residue. Or as the Cheeto poet might say, “No crunch without consequence.”

That's Science Today
         by: Z. Corwin

 

I grow weary

 

        Still here writing, but as you can see, I have used up most of my vocabulary, all of my verbs and pronouns and I’ve but a handful of punctuation remaining.  I believe I will soon be nothing but a puddle of tired inspiration dripping onto the carpet.

      Ah, the noble puddle of a writer spent — verbs wrung dry, punctuation on life support, inspiration oozing slowly toward the floorboards. It’s a strangely dignified end.

      I’ve fought the good fight with sentence and stanza, and now it’s time to let the ellipses carry me off into the soft shadows of memory.

    ...unless, of course, a semicolon limps in to hold things together a little longer.

 

but it doesn't look promising.