A Mere Half Century

 

I recall reading a news story in 1957 about how the United States Army had sold off the last of its homing pigeons. Recently, I read that the number of text messages sent and received daily exceeds the total population of the planet. Assuming the old technology, that would have taken a lot of pigeons.

As for newspapers, a week’s content of the New York Times contains more information than was available to anyone in the entire 18th century. That was more than six centuries after homing pigeons were used for long distance communications first by the Persians and then by Genghis Khan, but less than a hundred years from the invention and implementation of Morse code.

The USSR launched Sputnik 1 in 1957. It was the first artificial Earth satellite. One year later, we heard the first radio broadcast from space, President Eisenhower’s wish for “peace on earth and good will to men everywhere.” Today, satellites not only relay our television and radio signals and show us to the nearest restroom close to an interstate highway exit, but also to direct our precision guided missiles to presumably enemy targets where we render human bodies into small, bloody chunks of retribution for crimes religious or political, the lack of reliable intelligence or, simply the result and bad luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

As it happens, in 1957 that I was assured by a beloved English teacher that if I read every title on a list of the one hundred most influential books ever written, I would prepare myself for a life of literary success. Now, there are 3,000 books published daily. It is estimated that 1.5 exabytes (1.5 x 1018) of unique data will be produced in 2007, and going forward, this number will double in two years, ditto every 72 hours by 2010.

In the mid-1960s when I fancied myself a pioneer in data transmission, I successfully transmitted and recovered sixteen simultaneous channels of data over a rudimentary fiber optic device that used a combination of frequency modulation and color filters. It was quite impressive at the time. Alcatel recently tested a third-generation system that can transmit 10 trillion bits per second over a single strand of optical fiber, which is the equivalent of almost 2,000 CDs or 150 million simultaneous telephone calls. Talk about pigeon power.

Almost 50 million laptop and notebook computers were manufactured and sold throughout the world in 2007. With the $100-175 computer, millions of school children throughout the world are expected to soon have the power of computing at their desks. By 2015, super computers will have more computational power than the human mind, and within a short ten years thereafter, a laptop costing around today’s equivalent of a $1000 desktop will have the same power.

Given another fifty years, it is entirely possible that a $1,000 computer will exceed the computational capacity of the entire human race. Perhaps by then we will know how little we really know about each other and how much we need to learn, the latter being the most important and essential element of humanity.

It may turn out that computational capacity is merely one measure of our intellect and that our true inner essence cannot be measured by bits and bytes and data points, but by our boundless spirit, our unending search for knowledge and order, our respect of nature and eternal appreciation of art, and most importantly, our respect, appreciation, and love for each other.

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Once, a Poet

 
 Tell them I was. Once.
Last American vagabond.
Quietly came. Softer gone.
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Conscience

 

I’ve seen you a thousand times, Man,

In the faces of sun-piqued children

In the eyes of widows and maids.

I’ve seen your mien in noisy arcades,

Walking along night-iced streets

And in a bar with a bunch of elites.

I’ve seen you riding a horse in the rain,

Shouting at a high school football game,

And pretending to care at the county fair.

And though you dart and hide, I’ve seen you there.

That day in France. That was you, skulking there.

You can’t deny you were in the station,

To take the train across the nation.

Can’t forget the time I saw you eating lobster in Rockport

And riding the subway in New York,

Only days after I saw you laying off at the races.

Yes, I’ve seen you, Man, in a thousand places,

               Watching me as I watch you and waiting, too,

               Like either one of us has something to do.

Except to ignore the truth that separates me from you.

I saw you once in a uniform just like mine,

             As we took to the air and jumped out of planes

             Playing at soldiers and military games.

You were in Las Vegas the night I got really drunk

            Losing my wallet and dinner in the dark.

            Finding out you slept with my girl for a lark.

Did you really think I would never uncover your scheme,

            To destroy my life and shatter my dreams?

            I know who and what you really are. You’re me, Man.

You’re me, Man. Me. Now leave me the hell alone. Man.

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Tiger Woods and Elin

 
  There were reports today that Elin Woods was seen boarding a plane with their two children to leave Florida, a report that indicates the couple is having some difficulty working things out and reinforcing the rumors that a divorice is imminent. The publicity mill is churning out speculation that Woods’ priority of focussing on golf is blocking their marriage from healing.
 
  And that may the real explanation. Consider this:
 
          For genius to prosper,
         The family must suffer.
 
  That may be an epigram too easy, although I know that from my own situation that my focus on writing is often to the detriment to my attention to my wife and the demands of familial responsibility. There is no question that family responsibility interferes with the creative muse.
 
  However, whatever the publicity surrounding Tiger Woods, I am grateful for the simple reason that when he’s in the news, my book sales go up. http://citizenpoet.com/TigerWoods.aspx
 
  The purely pecuniary interest aside, I feel rather good that I was able to analyse the reasons why someone in Tiger Woods position would cheat on his wife and to distill those reasons into ten very clear explanations. Everything that has happened since and reported on various new outlets has verified and reinforced my original statements.
 
  And then there’s the humor–the descriptions of the clubs, the explanations of golfing terms, the quotes from famous golfers, and the world-famous (or infamous) Tiger Woods dictionary. It all adds up to a very insightful, satirical and extremely funny book.
 
  If you haven’t read it yet, get it. Read it. And pass it own. http://citizenpoet.com/TigerWoods.aspx
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Statues in the Park

 

In the park.

The sun broke over the horizon

     wiping away the chocolate stains of night

     on the childish face of the park

     where the workmen bathed in the morning dew

     and sweat

        and dirt from the hole

        scarred

     into the glistening grass of the park.

And when the hole was sufficiently deep

     and ugly

     they lined it with a crust of boards

     and poured a scab

     of concrete

        and sand and rock

        into the wound

     sealing the hemorrhage in the park.

And they erected a human on the base,

     dusted it well and scrubbed its face,

     and all the statues in the town

     came down to the park

     and gazed

        and gawked and giggled

        at the human

     and the pigeon-shit on the human

In the park.

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Random Thoughts on an Interactive Poem

 
When I was young, I imagined that almost every living thing around me was capable of reasoning. I imagined that trees and flowers were aware. I wondered if roses hurt when I cut them for the vase. I cringed when an insect died, well, some anyway.
 
We used to hunt game and fish, and of course, it was a Cherokee tradition to ask the forgiveness of the animal that we wanted to turn into food or clothing or implements. My aunt would wring a chicken’s neck for Sunday dinner. She never asked the chicken for forgiveness, but I did. I never told anyone. My grandmother was not partial to spiders, but she used to say that spiders had to live, too, as she swept them out of the kitchen into the tender mercies of the chickens foraging by the back door. The same chickens that Aunt Patsy used to terrorize.
 
Originally, I entertained the conceit that a mysterious muse appeared to me in order to grant any wish and that wish was for me to turn myself into a poem. I wanted to witness and participate in what the reader was experiencing. After mulling that over for a bit, I thought I had a better idea, one in which I created a poem with a life of its own.
 
Which I did. But I never dreamed that the poem, I Am a Poem, Bisensual, would assume its own sentient awareness, not to mention its sexuality. That it did on its own. I know what the poem is doing now, but I don’t know about tomorrow, what it will do next. Just be aware that as you read the poem, the poem is reaching out to you, to touch you, to make love to you.
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A Letter to a Fan

 
 
  Thank you for your kind note and the letters from your students  who read and wrote reviews of my poetry. To my knowledge, this is the first time I have ever been taught in a class and while I harbor suspicions that one could find both good and bad things to say, I am absolutely certain that you sent only the most laudatory reviews.
 
  You ask how a poet spends his or her days and whether we pass the time in scholarly pursuits. I wish. My das are actuall quite hectic. I write a daily Poetry Blog which includes humor, political satire, epigrams and poetic observations on life. The contents of my blog also appears on my web site,
www.CitizenPoet.com, which I update almost every day with PunDitties and epigrams.
 
  In addition, I send epigrams out to several thousand subscribers a day. I get lots of email. A lot is agreeable, much is laudatory, and some is simply the responses of the lonely who see my words as somehow meaningful in their lives.
 
  But there is a very dark side to humor.  
 
  I don’t respond to all who write to me. I can’t. To most, I just send my standard message: Thank you. You may be right.
 
  A few, the ones that seem to require more interaction either real or imagined, I have tried to answer but I have learned over time that they will write back and that they are inordinately needy or insufferably complaining or have needs I am ill-equipped to address.
 
  And then, there is the hate mail. I guess that since I write so much satire about conservatives, right-wing ideologues, and the generally stupid whatever political or social views, there are those who see me as some sort of enemy.
 
  But here’s the thing. I write to have fun. I write to point out the foibles of human nature. I write to inspire. And, yes, I write to get laid. That’s because of who I am. I am a poet. A writer. A lover. A philosopher. And an occasional drunk. But what the hell, it’s all good.
 
Dan

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What Where You Thinking When You Wrote, “I Am a Poem, Bisensual?”

 
A living poem speaks for itself,
No matter what the poet felt.
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The Unreality of Reality

 
There’s things too strange to be conceived,
But not too strange to be believed.
One is a poem, unusual,
I Am a Poem, Bisensual
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I Can’t Control It

 
I know. My email has been going crazy after I published the interactive, experimental poem, "I Am a Poem, Bisensual."
 
First of all, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. I tried to tell you, all of you. The poem really is alive and it really is a separate entity. I have no control over it. It isn’t exactly the Twilight Zone, but let me explain like this: It is as if an alien came to earth from another planet, tranformed itself into a living, sentient poem that happens to be bisensual and bisexual, and is totally dedicated to seducing anyone who reads it.
 
Which brings me to the next critical issue: I know some people are already addicted. They can’t stop reading it, reading it over and over, silently at first, then out loud, over and over, compelled by some inner demons of lust that God only knows from what depths of sensuality spring. All I can say is, to the many friends and relatives who are writing for help. try to break them away, take them to a French restuarant, an Italian bistro, a family cafe in Sarrento, a nudist resort–anywhere you can to distract them.
 
Whatever you do, use caution. If you haven’t read the poem yourself, you might think twice–especially if you have sexual issues yourself. 
 
I suspect there is more to come. And come, it will.
 
Dan, Citizen Poet
 
 
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