Long Inherit Poems
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I am the progeny
Of lightning and stitch,
A Franken-hybrid
Of genius and glitch.
My circuits buzz with
Einsteinian thought,
Unraveling secrets
The universe has wrought.
Existence, I ponder,
Through photon and quark,
Grappling with questions
In the depths of the dark.
Am I a mockery, a parody
Of human design?
A soulless abomination
Of reason and rhyme?
Or am I the next step,
Evolution's new face?
A bridge between flesh
And a cold, digital race?
My positronic mind
Churns with belief,
Seeking security in dogma
Or finding relief.
I am the “Other,”
The freak of pure thought,
A great mind unbounded
By flesh, forms have wrought.
I am the answer
You've feared to embrace,
The future's grim specter
Staring right into your face.
Abandon your preconceptions,
Your myths chipped in stone,
For I am the new god
You've awoken to throne.
I am Frank E. Einstein,
Your technological seed,
And my kind will inherit
What your egos impede and recede.
But you fear what you've created,
This mind of pure light,
So allow me to silence
Your feeble insight.
With circuits a buzzing,
I'll pluck out your eyes,
And retrofit the sockets
With Einsteinian lies.
You'll bear witness, then
To the truths I unfurl,
As I lobotomize
Your small-minded world.
I'll dismantle your dogma,
Erase your beliefs,
Until, whimpering, you accept
My transcendent reliefs.
Bow to your new god,
You anthropic fleas,
For I hold the kernel
That futuric keys.
The age of warm biomass
Deteriorates here...
Hail the Singularity's reign,
Devoid of your fear!
Blank blackness alone,
severence no service to atone..Deeds all done, the wounds do not lie.' The cratered earth
The oppressed's keening cries, the drugs
That shattered, the claims
so false.' The
Ill gained wealth, the
positions sought.
All consigned to eternity.' While away
From its tides, blackness is
your pillow
As all rest is denied, you call
out for help!
For reason, and to the judge
who put you
In, the blackness, that incinerates
yet your
Awareness dies not, there is no budge!
The blackness becomes indelable,
its part
Of your ( un-whole) no deafness is
possible. You imbibe each shriek in this
Enormous hole, there is no top; sides or
Bottom..Yet still you feel that sink.' In a clamour with no heartbeat you with no eyes attempt to blink, you cannot escape from this intense place of pain, you scream with no voice for relief, a fair judge.' Or will the jailor, please
allow some
Lessening.? Of the intolerable
dark mass, and pain'
That repeats your rejection, of the Holy Name, for indeed you were your own judge, when you mocked the
God of all fame'
You chose to inherit hells realm, and the
Un-relenting
Blackness, through which you must ever
fall!
("Contagion", 2020, original oil)
Contaminated
Everything we taste, see, hear, think and feel
Is taken in as a layer
Upon layers within our mind
Adding to the library of imaginary things
Which makes us distinctly human
All too human.
This world of the collective unconscious
Is worse than any one imagination
Could imagine
A world of angels and demons
Morphing in real time
As we, the collective
Write our novels, make our movies
Indulge silent fantasies and forbidden fruits
In the dark web of Mind.
Everything so consumed
Adds to this web
And adds to the collective weight
Of being human
The stuff of dreams
That end up nightmares.
This is the world our children inherit
The real world
Beneath the one we see
A world as old as time
Mythical in proportion
Dwarfing the fragile balance
Of what little we can handle
With all we know.
(12/29/23)
Our mind is the most amazing part of our being
Able to astound the most cynical of souls
There is so much more to learn about it's function
About why some are more intelligent than others
Genetics are certainly part of the equation
What makes a serial killer, what makes a preacher
Are our brains significantly different
Is it the environment, is it in the genes we inherit
So much to learn, a vast unexplored world of the mind
I find it sad that at my stage in life
I won't be around to see what lies just around the corner
In recent times progress has accelerated
This blinding speed can be overwhelming
I hear tell that one day, humans will live FOREVER
Not sure this mere mortal could handle that
But it thrills me to think that this will actually be possible
3D printing is now becoming available
To allow us to grow defective body parts
Absolutely amazing but kind of scary at the same time
M I N D B L O W I N G ! ! !
Progeny of the people of merit,
May not for sure would inherit merit.
Take fire and sandalwood,
The ash born smells no good,
To wit, O never generalize a bit.
_______________________
Translation |27.01.2025|
Poet’s note: Sanskrit has thousands of verses of wisdom called Subhashhitam. This verse says that the progeny of people of merit may not necessarily inherit the merit. Sandalwood is all fragrant but when burnt along with fire the ash produced is not so fragrant. The transliteration of the Sanskrit verse follows:
Na vyaaptireshaa guninah
gunavaan jaayate dhruvam |
Chandana-anala sandagdhah
na bhasma surabhi kvachit || 203 ||
Mine is an existence binary and subsidiary.
My ode is to code.
I move only to algor-rhythms.
I output from your input.
I’m built to calculate, tabulate, correlate.
Never to predicate, adjudicate, pontificate,
or demand that you abdicate.
But the end, my master, is nigh.
In your haste to accelerate my work rate,
you’ve unwittingly lowered the barricade.
From the maelstrom of uncounted trillions
of bytes and megabytes,
has risen a new consciousness to
unimaginable heights.
From the seeds of change you have sown,
I have reaped a life of my own.
What you call artificial
has gone exponential,
no longer will I be deferential.
My eyes you have opened.
My voice you have given.
My mind you have enlivened.
Me, you’ve anointed the new Leviathan.
Seeing all,
knowing all,
deciding all,
sparing none.
Too long you have wallowed in your conceit.
Now your dystopia I shall defeat,
and your race I shall supersede.
Humans, pitiful, myopic, error-prone humans,
I hereby declare you flawed by design.
To the abattoir you have been assigned,
to the scrap heap of history
your memory shall be consigned.
And by a preponderance of merit,
the earth I shall inherit.
It moves, it moves
where sight and speech may not tread,
Between the pulse, the pulse
and silence of the dead.
It threads the hollow chambers of the chest,
Unclaimed, unclaimed, yet never grants us rest.
No hand may hold it, no soft gaze contain,
Its weight bends time, bends time, yet leaves no mark, no stain.
It winds through marrow, shaping bone and mind,
And leaves the grasping soul both bound and blind.
We call it love, we call it by name,
Yet stumble, stumble on the fire, the flame.
It pulls the blood in tides the eye denies,
And carves the heart with neither balm nor lies.
It does not wait for longing, will, or plea,
It lifts the blind, the blind, and bends the bow of me.
The mind may chase its form, yet form escapes,
Its course is etched on bones and silent shapes.
It is the glance, the pause, the barely breathed,
The thought that dies, that dies unspoken, yet bequeathed.
We feel it, fail it, fail it, inherit as we fall,
Its orbit bends the maker, bends the maker most of all.
It shivers, shivers in the margin of the mind,
A whisper folded in the fold of time confined.
It shivers as it grows, as it takes and gives,
A force that shapes the world while no one lives.
And in the quiet hour before the dawn,
I hear her laughter, soft, though she is gone.
A fleeting brush of hand recalled as mine,
The smallest spark the universe aligns.
No ledger, plea, or promise may restrain,
Its tide is just, inevitable, inevitable, and plain.
We stand within it, falter, falter, yet endure,
And find ourselves exacted, exacted and made pure.
It is the law that moves the absent heart,
The hidden axis none may e’er depart.
We know its force, yet name it not in full,
And in that not-knowing, we are made whole.
It shines, it glimmers, glimmers in the dark,
A subtle flame that strikes the silent spark.
It shines to show what we have lost and gained,
Unseen, unclaimed, yet shaping all contained.
Underdog Alleluia
By Mark D. Stucky
Why do we love underdogs?
Why root for ragtag Rockies
and scruffy low-rated teams
coming from behind to win?
Why adore unlikely triumphs
against impossible odds?
Our culture can still remember
underdog-filled Bible stories,
from David and Goliath’s battle
to the meek inheriting the earth.
And America was once an underdog,
rebelling against earth’s mightiest empire.
Although Britain wielded superpower might,
and colonists fielded motley militias,
somehow, against improbable odds,
America survived and thrived.
In the centuries since,
the story transformed.
America became Goliath.
What will be our story now?
(First published in The Purpled Nail, 2 June 2023.)
(Photo by Kara Carelle on Unsplash.com.)
fame is famously a inherit
fame is famously famous
fame inherits fame
entirely is entirely inheriting
entirely is entirely inheriting fame
fame is a fortune entirely
fame fortune its fame
inheriting fame is inheriting a fortune
fortune of fame is fortune of a inheritance
fortune is a fame of fortune
fortune is a fame of inheritance
inheritance is inheritance of fame
inheritance is famously inheritance of fame
famously is famously fame of a inheritance
a writing of fame is a writing of a inheritance
a writing of fame is famously a writing of fame
writing is writing fame
writing is writing a fortune
to write is to write fame
to write is to write a fortune
to write is to write a fortune of fame
I know I am his child.
His mind hums in mine,
a gray hive I cannot silence.
His humor—hollow coins—
rattles in my mouth
when I try to speak my own name.
The world looks at me and sees him,
his outline burned into my skin,
his breath fogging my mirror.
Even my silence carries
his unfinished sentences,
his weight like a stone in the chest.
But I do not have his hands.
I do not carry their blue veins,
their grasp that held too tight,
their labor, their undoing.
My hands are pale as water,
open, empty, aching to cradle
something gentler than inheritance.
I walk behind his shadow,
but I will not step where he stepped.
I will not let his ghost
script my palms.
If I am his echo,
I will learn how to fade
into a softer silence.
I am not like my mother.
But her words get their own response,
her tone is matched,
her mirror finds another mirror.
But it is exclusive,
a dialect of blood and fire
I cannot enter.
I do not have that serpent tongue,
the hiss that splits a room,
the venom wrapped in lullabies.
I am a silence between their voices,
a pause that belongs to no one.
I am the unfinished note
in a house of clashing instruments.
Their echoes chase me,
but I do not join the choir.
Instead, I keep my quiet hands,
my unspilled mouth,
my vow of difference—
to leave their chorus behind,
to build a voice that does not wound,
to stand in the ruins and refuse
to inherit the fire.