Melatonin Redux

I dreamed of kicking bears in their blood-stained teeth as they chased me up to the top of tall trees.

And I dreamed of fighting children armed with aluminum bats and covering their visages with riot gear masks.

Then I dreamed I saw a gargantuan arm in the distance and I knew I was no longer dreaming.

I walked towards the giant appendage and saw another arm waving to me from afar.

I knew I wasn’t imagining things.

Then I blinked and saw arms stretching from treetop to treetop.

I saw hands grasping at me and yelling words in a signed language.

I witnessed arms springing forth from my arms and I knew that they couldn’t be from any another arms but mine.

I knew the new arms were attached to my old arms, my own weak and weary arms.

I wanted to shake my own hands, pat myself upon my own back, climb up the trees like a monkey spider, but as I tried to leave the ground I felt something pull against my leg and I toppled.

With a great effort I picked myself up and looked down to see arms had sprouted from my legs and were carrying me over the edge of a ragged cliff.

I knew that I was dying then, dying in my own arms.

The arms propelling me over the cliff were the arms that I never knew I had and that I had recovered in my dreaming.

Yet I knew I wasn’t in my dreaming.

I knew that I was falling.

I could feel all my arms flailing, hopelessly treading air.

I felt my new arms break and splinter from my body as I hit the ground below.

There were so many arms upon the dirt that I grabbed one and lifted it up to my eyes.

In the web of its hand, between thumb and forefingers were bloody teeth and a dark, hungry mouth, like a bear’s.

I thought about kicking the arm in its bloody teeth, but felt that wouldn’t help, so I thought instead to hold tight as the arm lifted me in the air like a bundle of helium balloons.

The world turned again and I looked toward the sky.

In the passing clouds, I saw my mother’s face.

She had fangs and a smile and around her head danced cherubs dressed in riot gear.

“I tried to tell you about dreams,” cloud-mother said.

“Yes,” I said. “Sometimes I remember.”

“And sometimes,” she sighed, “sometimes you forget.

Melatonin Redux


I dreamed of kicking bears after they chased me up a tree.

I dreamed of children armed with baseball bats and riot gear; perfectly masked so as to hide their innocent faces from those befallen by their wrath.

Perhaps for a few moments I dreamed your face made of stars and the world reborn from the blackest sea and all the blue monsters rising up from the depths onto new lands, the old world seemingly forgotten, unspoken, unseen, and unseen, to be

invisible like the dreams of middle-aged men, kicking their wives while they sleep, steeped in a silent malaise and weighing options to best cope with the inevitable betrayl of that which they tried to drown in those dark depths.

I dreamed of shooting and looting and reaping and raving and winning and losing and running stark naked across a barren field and being

in the end, afraid and tired, worried for the children and that which is coming for them.

I dreamed of kicking bears in their sharp-toothed mouths.

I dreamed of hungry children marching to claim their birthrights.


The energy to come back again and again

A flower seemed
to grow alone
in a field.

Upon closer inspection,
I watched a bee crawl
from underneath
a petal.

The bee whistled a tune;
about missing his honey
while being out
on the road.

The song had a slow,
steady melody,
by a buzzing melancholy.

Soon, other bees
I also hadn’t noticed
joined in the whistling.

I found the music odd,
The chorus of bees whistling
took me back
to someplace
I thought
I might never
visit again.

I left the bees
to walk in wooded silence
for the next two hours.
While the sun dropped,
I came upon
the shape of a house
as it slowly moved forward
from a dead end
in the woods.

I knew the house was alive,
for it breathed,
and it sighed,
and it waited
to help me remember a world
that I had forgotten.

I sat down
on the front porch
in seat that was warm
and watched a broken moon
appear low
in the sky.

Did you know the moon
was once a simple ball
of amniotic fluid?
Before it became
a great, celestial body?
We were all birthed by the moon and we never even knew it;
that part of our common history

I then began
to recall
all the things
I learned
during my college years
spent on an isolated island
off the shores of Greenland.

I remembered my moon studies professor
telling us how
she had learned
on her first day at school
that the sun
was not the center
of the universe,
but that it was the moon,
our moon above.

She told us
that the moon
and the sun
had gotten divorced
long ago
over a terrible thing
that was too terrible
to say.

She told us
about the polar nights,
the forever dark
and the clinging cold,
nights which scoffed
at attempts
to separate them
by thin slivers
of noonday light.

She told us
about the colors of the moon,
what they meant,
and why we should fear
a deep-purple sky.

She told us
how the moon
is covered with dust
from the sun,
light and golden,
and how the moon
has an outer ring
like a belt of rocks
strung together
from our mistakes.

In fact, she once told us
that if we stared at the sun,
right into its hot, glowering eye,
we would see the moon within.

She told us
that the moon
is a great jewel,
a magic treasure
of the universe.

She told us
that the moon has two halves,
the side it presents to the sun,
and the other side,
which she never talked about except to say,

“It is impossible
to see it both ways.”

I think back
to how
I was taught
the hidden truths
constraining the moon.

On the porch
that night,
I stared,
wary of the broken,
still-circling moon
and felt anxious
at the approach
of the bees’ whistles
coming to radiate
right through me.

The energy to come back again and again

The first time we saw an asteroid, we were in a war

There was once
an asteroid
with a core mass
of roughly 10.3
billion tons.

What made it different
from other asteroids
hurling through
our solar system?

Well, we learnt
from the natives of the asteroid
(that’s certainly different
from other asteroids)
that this particular asteroid
came to Earth first in the 1800s
and that it left Earth
as all asteroids do,
quiet and humble,
like an old woman
farting in church.

Scientists from the 1800s
studied the asteroid leavins
and they figured,
using their gargantuan
human brains,
brains bigger than a weasel,
brains smaller
(but more efficient)
than an oliphant,
brains about the size of
an ape brain,
figured to use their brains
to extract all of
the valuable metals
in the hopes that,
in a hundred years henceforth
(they wrote words like that in their journals
along with naked drawerings of
mermaids and faeries),
so that in a hundred years henceforth,
humans would understand
how to make
precious high-end toilet seats
from asteroid metal.

There was a lot of excitement,
as they discovered
that the asteroid
also left behind
a recipe for Toaster Strudels,
and they tucked that away
in henceforth hopes
for a future
with a toaster oven
or two.

They further henceforth hoped,
that with this valuable asteroid
the human race
would one day make
ALL of the planets in the solar system
as valuable
and productive
as Jupiter,
that big-ass gas giant
of a big-ass planet
that 1800s scientists
loved more than their

The asteroid
also left behind
some itty bitty asteroid people
to help the scientists out.
The scientists called them,
“the local, indigenous population”
and hired
some mercenaries to fire upon
the tiny alien sources
of infinite, cosmic wisdom
with teeny wittle arquebuses
and eensy weensy cannonballs.

Humans never say die, do we?
No, sir, humans do not.

The first time we saw an asteroid, we were in a war

Things We Hold Dear

It only took two minutes to break the world, split it open, let the gooey center leak out into the cold black of space and watch the solid core shiver in its raw, iron nakedness.

Then, the entire thing was still.

“This was the world and all it contained,” read the memorial.

You reached into the stillness and pulled the world to you as though it were something important you’d forgotten. It was as though the old life itself was within you, and you felt the weight of all the old life beating in your own heart and pumping through your own veins.

You reached for the world again and again and again.

“The world and all that it contained, yes?” they asked in a sibilant whisper, smile wide as Orion’s belt.

You pulled the world closer.

“The world is a thing that shouldn’t have broke.”

Their eyes widened and they looked at you with terror, wondering what you would manage to sacrilege next. But you had been here before.

You felt that dusty sense of eternality. You knew they had loved the world in the time before its death, despite their present tone. They had been here, waiting for you, for this. They’d been here before, too, while you were holding the cold world close to your chest in mourning. You felt then, as now, the warmth of their celestial body wrapped over and through your own. And yet you had forgotten how suffocating that warmth could grow.

Their thousand hands touched your skin and you shivered.

“I know you do not like the world to be cold and lifeless,” they said softly through a million mouths in a million tongues. “But I’ve told you these same things many times before and do so again now.”

A billion hands closed tightly around yours, “You have always taken up within in me and then kept this constant vigil, watching over the world. And the more I watch you watch the world, the more I fail to understand love.”

You shook your head and tried to escape their constraints. They closed a trillion eyes then spoke, “No one can keep you from watching. All these years from now, when we’re here again – no one will ever keep you from watching.”

You put your hand inside one of their open mouths and said, “The world is our love, my love, and that’s all we will ever care about. The world will continue no matter what, I promise you yet again.”

And then you climb inside, taking the world with you, keeping it safe and close, like you would a helpless child.

Things We Hold Dear

If This Is The Future, Call Me Marty McFly

is the product roadmap.*

Our attitude
towards democracy
is fundamentally different
from our attitude
towards algorithms.

we’re to have a future,
it is essential
to make sure
that people’s opinions
won’t become
so deeply
as to be useless

             or hostile.

People worry
that computers
will get too smart
and take over the world,
the real problem
is that they’re too stupid
and they’ve already
taken over the world.

The first
major innovation
in computers
a computer word processor

It’s tempting
to believe that computers
will be neutral
and objective,
but algorithms
are nothing more
than opinions
embedded in mathematics.~

The state
an ideology
that dictated
that computers
would be good,
that in order
to manage computers
and control computers,
they needed
to control

They believed in the idea of





We’re building
this infrastructure
of surveillance authoritarianism
to get people
to click
on ads

It is important
to recognize
the power of surveillance
will be increased
computer-controlled systems
ever more sophisticated

It is
very hard to know
when an algorithm
have made the final calculation
when it always has
more data available.


If This Is The Future, Call Me Marty McFly

Does Whatever a Spider Can

oh! you spiders

oh! you little creatures that cause so much fear

oh! you symbols of evil and danger lying in wait

oh! you funny stories

oh! there is no one who actually is a spider

oh! you creations of the military/industrial/entertainment complex

oh! you modern mythological villains and heroes;
you are not pure anything, just frustrated and lonely and broken and confused

oh! you reflections of the present

oh! in every single one of you, there is a hidden message

oh! you are stories and stories and stories still

oh! you are stories that are supposed to be told

Does Whatever a Spider Can

Freedom’s just another word for existential crisis

You want to know why I’m going to war against the war on terror?
Because terror is a war against the war on freedom.
The war on terror is a war against freedom.
Terrorists want to destroy the war on the war against the war on the world.


This war against terror is a war against human wars against civilization.
It is a war against a way of life against life.
The terrorists do have an interest, as do our enemies.
Our enemies just might dare to dare to do something.


Isn’t there a risk that they might risk succeeding?
Yes, I’m afraid that I’m afraid there is.
I’m very concerned by that prospect’s prospects.
I just hope that there is a response to put a stop to that response.


In other words, we can’t give up on our liberties.
But isn’t ‘liberty’ another word for terror?
Yes, and we’re precisely talking about terrorists so try and keep up.

Freedom’s just another word for existential crisis