Ideas in Common Places

They sit under a tree
With a dove in one branch
And pass the afternoon

Talking about absent
Family members, sharing
Stories, joking, watching

The life-flight chopper fly
Over the sandstone cliffs
In Zion, wondering,

Was it a heart attack?
Leaves land on them. One draws
A scene of a card game.

One goes inside to get
His handheld radio
For park condor wardens,

To see if the chatter
Can explain the chopper,
While another explains

The etymology
Of topic, and the fourth
Remembers a thick book

She read once, all about
The life and suffering
Of Van Gogh. Did you know

He sold just one painting
In his lifetime? Voices
Squawk from the radio

But say nothing about
Reasons for the life flight.
Ideas aren’t that common.

Then Whence Cometh Evil?

Asked of God or disease,
Of human nature or
Natural selection,

Cultural history,
Of anything at all,
Any way you ask it,

It’s spot on topic but
The most useless question,
One more variation

Of the strange conviction
That, if you find the root,
Rip it out of the ground,

You’ll destroy the problem
And end the invasion.
Actual plants don’t end

At their tap roots always,
And they’re mere metaphors
For the invisible,

Thorough penetration
Threading everything with
What’s wrong with everything.

It’s not an invasion.
It’s this life’s condition.
Cure or consolation

Won’t be found by asking
For which way the wind blows
Or homing directions.

It may not even be
Evil that you’re seeing,
Which implies agency.

It may be suffering,
Merely suffering, felt
By good and evil both—

Gravity, creation
Out of nothing, something,
Ceaseless waves, battering

Stone into submission.
There’s a hole in the rock
Surrounded by dying

Through which goeth evil.
Nothing seems to return.
To be sure, that’s something.

Poetry and Fiction

Poetry and fiction approach
Their own photography moment,

When machines arranged carefully
Can create, extend, and best art,

As daguerreotypes did to oils.
The machine art will be different,

Will become a commonplace tool,
Possibly, deployed by artists,

But also by hobbyists and
The casual habits of all.

The old laborious making
Will redefine itself away

From the ways machines represent,
Will at some point reach an extreme

Of doing just what machines don’t,
Anything but what machines do,

Then splinter in all directions,
Even looping back, so one day

People may refer to a poem
As so vividly meaningful,

Such a trompe-l’oeil of emotions,
You’d think AI had composed it,

And that, too, will be a movement,
Among the many ways words move

Through far-off future poetry
And fiction—although, who can say

If it will happen that way? Not
Us, no, nor even our machines.

Reviewing the Lay of the Land

Body, mind, and awareness together
Are constantly negotiating
An infinitely complicated world

That doesn’t care to be negotiated.
Fortunately, the team has help
In the form of other, similar teams

Of bodies, minds, and awarenesses.
Unfortunately, those similar teams
Are also often the greatest threats.

That about sums it up. So, what’s next?

This Must Mean Something

Which is the oldest shape
Of magic in human
Eyes—circle or spiral?

One is perfection; one
Is the labyrinth. But
Neither one dominates

Humans’ own shapes nor shapes
Of the most magical
Of predators and prey.

Spiral galaxies aren’t
Obvious to bare eyes,
And few of nature’s rings

Come close to true circles.
In the caves both share space
With hand stencils and more

Representational
Figures of animal
Magic. Why circles? Why,

Especially, spirals?
As a child you drew them
All over your notebooks,

In part because you could
But also they looked good.
Why would spirals look good?

If it didn’t have to
Mean something, would it all
Still compel you to draw?