Thursday, March 31, 2016

David J. Thompson- A Photo


                                              "Malaga Mural"



Wednesday, March 30, 2016

Eric Robert Nolan- Three Poems


"The Writer"

At night he dreamt of birds, thou­sands of them,
impris­oned in his house.

Ravens screamed in the attic.
Spar­rows pan­icked in the hall.
He sat at his desk.   A Jay pecked
Fran­ti­cally at his shirt sleeve.

The base­ment door revealed
Tor­rents of finches, erupt­ing in the dark
A loud gray storm
Of beaks and tiny claws.

Seag­ulls suf­fered in the cup­boards.
Para­keets in the rafters, trapped,
Raged in Etruscan.

He crossed the room.
Owls
Moaned under the floorboards.

Twelve red car­di­nals
Lined his kitchen shelves –
A dis­cor­dant jury.

Pea­cocks plead in the oven.
In a jar of sugar
Tit­mice strug­gled for air.

At his desk were
Pho­tographs, let­ters
Pens and a half dead Marten.

He reached for his old brown afghan but felt
Bone and feather
The heav­ing brown breast
Of a starv­ing eagle.

Some­times the scratch
Of pen against paper brought
Respite from birdsong:

Two less wings against the silence
One less voice in that
Trou­bled aviary.

A par­rot perched
On his paper stacks.
“Remorse,” it offered fee­bly.
“Regret,” he answered back.


"The Secretary"

Skin and cir­cuitry,
Metal and flesh.
Her dreams of child­birth were
Relent­less, recur­ring.
Push, push, push
Said a midwife’s mechan­i­cal voice.

Flu­o­res­cent lights flick­ered,
Then mur­mured dis­cor­dantly.
Coarse starched sheets
Scratched her knees.
Machines hummed in corners.

She pushed.
The prod­uct of her womb was hard —
Edges and angles
Against her inner thighs.

And at the end of that dif­fi­cult birth, look­ing down,
She saw coils and coils of bright cop­per wire.

By day, she was a sec­re­tary.
Peo­ple liked her.  Not enough, though,
For Valentine’s, dates, anniversaries.

With furtive eyes, she observed
All those lit­tle moments
That enchant a com­mon life.

So, she only worked.
Phone, file, phone.
Push, push, push.

At times, she imag­ined her womb
As a ges­tat­ing clock.
Its metic­u­lous gears
Marked the pas­sage of time.

Bat­ter­ies moved her limbs, her veins
Were wires in her skin.
She hid cir­cuits
Behind her eyes.
Elec­tric­ity rid­dled her brain –
Warm lightning.

Return­ing home one night,
She passed a fac­tory on her right.

Its smoke­stacks vaulted up
Like tur­rets.  The lights there
Were stacked stars.

Its fence hummed.  The smoke­stacks
Exhaled rhyth­mi­cally
Push, push, push.

A metal shed was there –
She imag­ined it had
A piston-​​beating heart
A mus­cled metronome –
Life in a bright steel box.

Arriv­ing home, her spine
Tick­led with cur­rent.
She reached her garage and parked.  Blue sparks
Danced in her sinuses.
Push, push, push,
Said a mid-wife’s mechan­i­cal voice.

She pushed some oily rags
To seal the open spaces
Beneath her garage door.
In her brain,
Machines hummed in corners.

She pushed the car’s igni­tion.
The air there nour­ished her, then.
The car­bon monox­ide
Push, push, pushed her.

She shut her eyes.
Her gears slowed softly.


"The Bureaucrat" 

Amity in his veins,
The gray, aging bureau­crat
Lit a cigarette.

He spied ice on a win­dowframe
How unlike its blue-​​cold form
Were the words of indus­try – warm.

Like sun­light on a mon­u­ment,
The bright hues of a flag,
Warm – like the ring­ing endorse­ment
Of a prod­uct or a plan.
Like the gaily col­ored cov­ers
Of an annual report.

Warm – like the newly dead.



© Eric Robert Nolan 2013



BIO:  Eric’s poetry and short stories have been featured by Dagda Publishing, Every Day Poets, Every Day Fiction, Illumen, Under The Bed, Dead Beats Literary Blog, Microfiction Monday Magazine, Dead Snakes, Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine, The Bright Light Cafe, Aphelion, Tales of the Zombie War, The International War Veterans’ Poetry Archive, and elsewhere.  His poems were also included in anthology format in Dagda Publishing’s “Threads” in September 2013.  Eric’s science fiction/horror short story, “At the End of the World, My Daughter Wept Metal,” was published in January 2014 in Dagda’s short story anthology, “All Hail the New Flesh.”

Jennifer Lagier- A Photo


                                                "Wall Angel"

 

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

Sudeep Adhikari- A Poem


Tao of Noise

 

Infinity is no more

than a fraction

tripping on noise and relations

when some feedbacks loop in

to create the little recursion of "Know Yourself"

with some gizmos and blinks.

 

An identity of the opposites;

between single and the multiple

between absurd and the sublime

and between me and you

leaves no space

same shit, different orders.

 

with each poem

I try to be that infinity;

the scorching sound-grinds of Michael Gira,

the seething heat of Jung's Hell-fire

or that astral window into the Bardo-Land

of Dakinis, demi-gods and undead Buddhas;

M.C. Escher's impossible universes,

David Lynch's Earserheads

Dr. Dennis Upper's paper on

"The Unsuccessful Case of self-treatment of
a Case of Writer's Block"

and Rauschenberg's white paintings.

 

All are empty and full

Noisy and pop

at the same time.

 

with each bottle of time,

cocktailed with wine

I realize that chaos

is the very fabric of my existence

and is the "Mother of all things"

as Lao Tzu once said thousands of years ago;

"Before Heaven and earth, there was something nebulous

Eternal and alone, silent and void

the mother of all things

I don't know its name

I call it Tao".


(First appeared online on The Peregrine Muse, Feb 2016)



Sunday, March 27, 2016

Joan McNerney- Three Poems



Shhhhh...

There is a
witch living
on the corner
where the four
roads meet.

Her eye is
evil, her
nose crooked.

She lays down
the tarot
pattern
with wrinkled
hands.

Asks "do you wish
tea of wormwood
or henbane?"

She will enchant
your mind now
into fields of
wild roses.



I planted my garden

on the wrong side
of moon forgetting
tides of ocean
lunar wax wane

only madness
was cultivated
there underground
tubular roots
corpulent veins

flowers called
despair gave off
a single fruit...

I ate it
my laughter
becoming harsh
my eyes grew
oblique.



Methuselah Speaks

Living in shadows I scarcely stir.
Each motion brings pain with fear
of falling, breaking brittle bones
or bruising my spider web skin. 

I see so little.  Sunlight blinds my
rheumy eyes.  Night dims my world
leaving just vague outlines.

Food is stale, bitter.  Thirst savage. 
No liquids quench me.  My bodily
functions often fail befouling me.

All these years weigh down my soul.
Hearing faded, everything in whispers.
My breath is raspy, without strength.

My mind dull with defeat.  I count only
my losses and remember nothing
but the dead.  My memory is pain.

I cannot celebrate births. My great
grandchildren died so long ago. 
Why must I  always wait here?

God, have you forgotten me?


Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Camel Saloon, Blueline, Poppy Road Review, Spectrum, three Bright Hills Press Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publications.  She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net. 


Rebecca Cowgill- Three UFO Haiku


the alien and me
share a handshake
ending our negotiations


New Year's Eve
spaceships invade
the black night sky


phoning for an ambulance
an alien found unconscious
in a crashed spaceship



Bio:

Rebecca Cowgill's small poems can be found in Poems and Poetry, The Poet Community and Dead Snakes.
 
 

Alan Catlin- Three Poems


They are outfitting

the loons better
wherever that is,
I thought as he made
his way to the end
of the bar, sat down
and began a casual
conversation with an
alien presence in
another dimension.
I ordinarily don’t like
to interrupt private
conversations but
it is my job to ask
people what they
want to drink.
He treated my inquiry
as the worst kind of
felonious assault,
began deep breathing,
inhaling, as if he were
trying to suck the air
out of my lungs.
I watched for awhile
wondering how long
he could go on in this
manner, thinking, maybe
forever the way he was
working the air, so I
said, “There’s a ten dollar
cover charge for the air.
Pay up or leave.”
That brought him back
to earth and fast.



Abducted

He had the air
of someone not long
for this world or
someone not long in it,
take your pick.
Was wisp thin,
anemia pale,
scarecrow tall
and able to repel
creatures simply
opening his mouth
as if to speak.
Uttered sounds so
guttural and confused,
something inside of
him must have been
congenitally deformed
or deliberately altered
to prevent his telling
where he had been
taken and how he
got back.  Could
have been a star at
Alien Abduction
conventions if he
could have spoken
clearly of his ordeal
but this was not to be.
Better luck next time
is all you can think
to say.



Putting a New Face on the Homeless

Outside mall by
exit lights, homeless
man stands dressed in
second hand rags and
an ET rubber mask.
Holds a Homemade sign
that says, ”Need Cash
                To Phone Home”
You had to give him
extra credit for ingenuity
as you fumble for loose
bills, change.


Stefanie Bennett- Two Poems


Stefanie Bennett is of mixed heritage [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee].
Born in Townsville, Qld., Australia her latest poetry title was published by
Walleah Press and is available from Walleah, Amazon and Fishpond
Books.
 
 
 
TOWER           
 
Fetch me a line, one that won’t
Prop up the Nation.
 
Moon, toss back the dog – it’s
Given you narcolepsy.
 
Be damned you horn-locking
Demons masquerading
                       Culture
 
Tasering the body you’re
Hoping to save...
 
Lend that wit, Sociology. That
Wit festering in memory-bank’s
                       Zoo... just
 
Take yourselves to bed; don’t
Question what I’m about to do
                       With your tools:
 
By morning you’ll inherit
The labours you crave.
 
 
 
INCURSION      
 
Only the most fiery
Of our poets
Are prepared
To burn
Their
Most chosen
Scraps:
 
This of course
Does not
Prevent
       Repetitive
Smoke chasing.
 
 

Wednesday, March 23, 2016

John Pursch- A Poem



John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net, his work has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. Check out his experimental lit-rap video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.




Assuming Quicksand

Embarking adoration rips acetic eyeliner loot from second-can tobacconists before a pensive shiver ever ruptures, crepuscular in muted metal rain of wagon sickle hiding squeak.

Nods withstand explosive giggles, gaggles of frocked wolves, and messy old smiths, all flying on method dreams, passing casual clay and sunny glimpses of imbibed recycled calendars, traduced to marginalia by posed ergodic flippers.

Punchy cardigan pairs irrigate erotic tackles, plucking blockhouse bullion into phased legality’s codicil of sullied keister casuistry, breaded to alpine consanguinity by a Merovingian quadrant’s hortatory usurpation.

Jocks morph twice, rowing through floating thighs, christening the shapely seagoing gulls with lungs of needy illusionists.

Melodious weeds throw secondary towlines in estranged attempted basket-chaser freebie whist, carping at neural streets of vortices, equivocation becalmed by sonar.

Finally, theta ran into homey guardians, cordoning coughed talons, fusing anisotropic ideas within another pout, assuming quicksand.


Nancy May- Three Alien Haiku


headline news
an alien found dead
at the crash site

hearing the news
of the alien autopsy
one heart, two lungs

alien space ship
floats amongst the clouds
planning a new route


Nancy May’s haiku can be found at Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Inclement Poetry, Twisted Dreams Magazine, Vox Poetica, Eskimo Pie, Icebox, Dark Pens, Daily Love, Leaves of Ink, The Blue Hour Magazine, Kernels, Mused – The BellaOnline Literary Review, Danse Macabre – An online literary Magazine, High Coupe, A Handful of Stones, Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine, 50 Haikus, The Germ, Boston Literary Review, Be Happy Zone, Every Day Poets, Cattails, Ppigpenn, Creatrix Journal, M58, The Camel Saloon, Haikuary, the Plum Tree Tavern., Dead Snakes, The Poet Community and Poems and Poetry. She has reached The Heron’s Nest consideration stage twice and the Chrysanthemum consideration stage once. She is working on her first haiku collection.


Bruce Mundhenke- A Poem


The Wire

Come on out of your shell,
Take a walk upon the wire,
Watch that you don't fall,
Beware of the fire.

Look down at the abyss,
Fire down below,
Careful as you move along,
Take it nice and slow.

Fire down below you,
No way to ascend,
No way to know what is ahead,
When the wire has reached its end.

Don't think about the abyss,
Pay no attention to the fire,
Dig each righteous step you take,
As you travel on the wire.

No way to go backward,
Back into your shell,
The wire is now your home,
Your shell has served you well.

But the wire might lead to heaven,
Or the wire might lead to hell,
But it's your wire to travel,
Pity if you fell.

Tuesday, March 22, 2016

Robert Lavett Smith- A Poem


CONCERNING ANGELS

Although she is usually loath to be seen
so scandalously under-dressed, Beulah Rock
actually owns—stashed in the back of a drawer
somewhere—a prodigious yellow tee shirt
bearing the slogan I Believe in Angels
in bold blue letters as vivid as a summer sky.
A gift from Myrtle several birthdays ago,
it’s aired out once a year, at the annual picnic.

Some insist these celestial messengers are merely
symbolic, but she and the Reverend know better:
Many’s the time, at dusk when the diminished light
transforms fields and trees to a brief, dusty gold,
she’s sure she’s heard them softly singing,
voices concealed behind the rustling leaves
or in the patient refrain of the nearby river.

A reassurance, perhaps a benediction,
the words are strange, and vanish instantly,
like fragments of a conversation overheard
and then forgotten an instant before sleep.



Raised in New Jersey, Robert Lavett Smith has lived since 1987 in San Francisco, where for the past sixteen years he has worked as a Special Education Paraprofessional. He has studied with Charles Simic and the late Galway Kinnell. He is the author of several chapbooks and three full-length poetry collections, the most recent of which is The Widower Considers Candles (Full Court Press, 2014). He has recently been working on an new collection of sonnets—his second foray into the form—which is entitled Sturgeon Moon, and which will hopefully be published by Full Court Press sometime this year.



Monday, March 21, 2016

Sudeep Adhikari- Two Poems


The City of Men

The ravens gang up
on the lone tree
in my neighborhood
house of sticks and ether
besides the towering
jungle of silicates;
gloss of stupor double-binds
 the schizophrenia
of Gods' city.

 A pocketful of plate-tectonics,
a few quantums of love and hate,
a sleep-walking inertia
living the dreams
of ancient mummies;
let the gods sleep
 in their UFO drones. 

There are no doors to heaven
there are no truths
 to seek
are you there, my friend?
are you awake?


First appeared in "Novelmasters"




Multiplicity Nothingness

 

Glitch and gravity, both
bend the space
time-warp my already
whacked-out reflexes
I make the Mobius strip

and a couple of more paradoxes

out of my psyche;

God must be a geometer
as Kepler has thought once.


a sonic excess of noise
or the rhizomatic fuzz
inside the root of a pepal tree;

life oozes out of
every impossibilities

in a path

nor straight, neither curvilinear
fractal, probably.

 

Have you ever tried

to make nothingness

deep-dream in Google?

to get countless virtual raves,

multiverses, cat-eyes

for the laser-light
and few psychedelic

shinto temples.

 

matter and mind

weave an irreducible

 psychoid whole
related and plural

 undivided, yet many

The Tao of psychophysics.

 

All my life, I haunted

for the single truth
and ended up finding

many whores,
some sleepless rivers that flow
straight from a beer-factory,

few deathless trees that refuse

not to dance for a second

and some coked-out gods

who like to party

wearing a blood-soaked skull
for a cap.

 

I am not a sell-out
but I find no difference either.


 First appeared in "Zombie Logic Review"


Sunday, March 20, 2016

Sunil Sharma- A Poem


Gorgon!

You are a strange creature, O, Gorgon!
Snakes braid your head, unheard so far!
Your gaze turns the viewed into stone.
You, of dreadful visage and poisonous locks.
Being immortal, you do not dread the Hades, like us
Because---
You are the epitome of death,
The terrible figure, a minor deity;
Not only the ancient Greeks but
Rest of the humanity has been in thrall of you and your other sisters.
Fanged teeth, eyes popping out of sockets and protruding tongue pictured
On the walls in Athens frightened others with evil hearts and protected
Residents from harm or malevolent eyes;
Your mythic being sprang up from fear and continue to dominate the creative imagination.
At the same time, you got great powers:
Blood taken from your right side can heal,
While from the left flank, if administered,
Can prove fatal!
Same person, contrasting sides,
Dualism of sweetness and poison
Contained within!
Creativity and destruction; life and death
You are the eternal source for both.
Femininity---dreaded and revered
Goddess and demon;
Combining animal and human sides in an odd body.
Gorgon, the serpent-woman, a hybrid of terrible aspects---
You symbolise patriarchy’s deepest fears and anxieties
Snake venom,
Deadly stare,
And the capacity to turn the spectator into an object,
What deadly combo inscribed in a woman's loving heart!
Although advanced, the world deifies the ugly and markets
Such strange depictions of an imagined dark figure, for the horror industry.
How misunderstood Gorgon, you continue to be, in our age!


Jennifer Lagier- A Photo


                                           "X marks the spot"


Ken Allan Dronsfield- Three Poems


Soup's On

In the grainy, dark hues
of a late spring twilight
a stillish peace so true,
you can hear a falling star.

As I walk the lonely lane,
full of rage and red disdain
Swordless rebellions can be
a very good thing indeed.

As gold shooting stars glide
across the breadth of sky.
I raise a glass to the creator,
whose mind put it all together.

Albeit but an insignificant speck
of atoms shooting through and
the wilding universal expanse,
a primordial soup served daily.



Committed, Rev 2

I laughed in their faces
as I committed to flight
within the dimmed night
of a vast swirling haze
sprinkled with delights.
Awaken a spirited grin
from a darkling gaze;
a chalice of warm gin
and unicorns danced.
We all recited a ditty,
"Race your dragonfly;
Grasp a shooting star;
Whisper to the Moon;
Dance with the Fairy."
Your Devil warms up
on the Summer's grill.
I forgot the bugle call
whilst dipping my quill
as I committed to flight;
a soulless zombied bite,
in the eve of a raucous,
contemptuous icy night.



Lingeringly Yours

An evening of fire, brimstone and desire;
walking with a torch to the Pulpit of Dark.
Book in hand, followers unite and stand;
preaching torrents by the burning sparks.

Mumbling to the Moon; a diabolical belief;
the devil reaches out to devour the devout.
Breathe into a cauldron, exhale in shadows;
crucible burns long gnarly twisted fingers.

Raise high to your deity; sky or far below.
A dark spirit rises, a tempted Watcher lingers
in an anointed dance of homicidal tendency,
lost within ethereal dreams of moon flowers.

Pity a bluish pig dancing in a velveteen sky;
praise the virtuous ones of a secreted Piety.
My skin is ice as the clock strikes midnight,
Now racing away lingeringly yours, gratified.



Bio: Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet, Author and Digital Artist originally from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He enjoys the outdoors, playing guitar and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. He is the Co-Editor of the new Poetry Anthology titled, "Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze" available at Amazon.com. His published work can be found in Journals, Magazines and Blogs throughout the Web including: Indiana Voice Journal, Belle Reve Journal, Peeking Cat Magazine, Dead Snakes, Bewildering Stories and many others.


Friday, March 18, 2016

Stefanie Bennett- Two Poems


Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry, a novel, & a libretto.
Her poems have appeared in Carcinogenic Poetry, VerseWrights, The Provo
Canyon Review, Shot Glass Journal, Plum Tree Tavern, High Coupe & others.
Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Qld.,
Australia. Stefanie’s latest poetry title ‘The Vanishing’ was published by
Walleah Press & is available from Walleah, Amazon & most bookshops.
 
 
 
I HEARD A WOMAN WEEPING      
 
I heard a woman weeping down
At the market place.
                                With emphasis:
 
I followed. I saw the woman weeping
Among the cabbages and spring-beans.
How relevant she is to history
 
I don’t know. She wore black [that much
I’ll record]: what’s more, when I left
They – the shoppers and stewards
 
Were stoning her with their eyes
At 8.42 a.m.  Easter Saturday with
An odd God and his mannerisms
                                    On their side...
 
 
 
TRICKSTER        
 
I would like to remind
My dissenters
That often
The wrong key
In a worn
Lock
Will bring
The house
 
... Down.
 
 

Sunday, March 13, 2016

Richard Schnap- A Poem


BEDTIME STORY

There once was a bird
Crippled since birth
That had no wings
To bring flight

That could only watch
Others ascend
While it sadly dreamed
Of the sky

But then one night
It gazed at the stars
And sent up a
Silent prayer

To be answered when
The hand of a wind
Lifted it into
The heavens


Wednesday, March 9, 2016

Stefanie Bennett- A Poem


Stefanie Bennett has published several volumes of poetry and worked with
Arts Action for Peace. Her poems appear in High Coupe, Mad Swirl, Shot
Glass Journal, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Dead Snakes, The Provo Canyon
Review and others. Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee]
she was born in Queensland, Australia. Stefanie’s latest poetry title (2015)
“The Vanishing” was published by Walleah Press and is available from
Walleah, Amazon, Fishpond Books etc.
 
 
 
VORTICISM        
 
It is only a mad bull bellowing
At the ‘city gate’. As
Consistent as Spring -
The visitation has
Doubled the tourist trade.
 
What to make of it... this
Mad bull? And
Why does he
Choose
The City Gate?
 
Perhaps it is a forewarning
Of bastardry to come – or
A lament
Of those
Now passed...
 
The hair stands up along
My spine. Sonorously
His hooves thump out
The rhythm:
 
       Yes! No!
       Yes! No!
 
 

Sunday, March 6, 2016

Denny E. Marshall- A Drawing


                                         "Medium Green Men"

Bio
Denny E. Marshall has a website called www.dennymarshall.com

Alan Catlin- Three Poems


Venus Fly Traps

Remember that original Star Trek episode
where the Enterprise has rescued a tribe
of inter-stellar hippies. Not sure where
they came from, or what the thinking was
behind this truly insipid idea, or what
made someone think it would be a good plan
to transport these folks to some Eden place,
being hawked by the incredibly obnoxious
charismatic leader.  When the hippie tribe got
to their destination it was supposed to be all
peace, love, and fornication, the latter being
what Kirk was all about, so off they go
searching for the planet. Maybe there were Di-lithium
crystals involved, there always were, somehow.
(and what were Di-lithium crystals anyway?)
It must have been the last season when everyone
knew the series was going to be cancelled:
scripts and idea were getting pretty thin
(remember “Trouble with Tribbles”?) Let’s face it,
there was just so many times Spock could raise
that eyebrow and look skeptical and he was clearly
straining facial muscles during some of those episodes.
What was absolutely clear was: Mr. Roddenberry’s
opinion of the youth culture and social upheavals
of the 60’s, which was neither here nor there,
really, and ultimately, maybe he was right. 
Naturally, when the hippies find their planet
and everyone is beamed down, it doesn’t
take but a minute to find out that Eden is
actually a snake pit.  First an apple poisons the
eater, one bite is all it takes, then the inviting,
sparkling stream, turns out to be acidic, burning
all who touch it, and all that lush vegetation conceals
huge Venus Fly traps, and, maybe, worst of all,
there are no electrical outlets to plug in all their
musical instruments for impromptu Woodstock
Music Festivals. Everyone is complete bummed
and then they die, just like in real life.



                        Robots

Back in the golden age of science fiction as put
(Not Asimov, I Robot….) forth by the World’s Fairs
in 1964 /65, when we were supposed  to be embarking
into an age of great new labor saving devices  and fantastic                                                                        
technology. And look what we got: Computers.
Still, back then, Dow Chemical could proclaim,
with a straight face, that this was a time of, “Better living
through chemistry.” Actually it was a boon
time for the making of napalm, but we’re not
supposed to remember that. Hey, we would believe
just about anything.  How else can you explain
the popularity of such TV shows as: The Jetsons
and, the Godawful, Lost in Space, featuring the robot
with no name. It is not to difficult to connect the robot
with exact contemporary:  the Man with No Name,
Clint Eastwood trilogy. You‘d think Robot with No Name,
should have been called Robbie, right? “You know nothing,
Will Robinson.” might be appropriate dialogue here,
followed by, “Danger, Danger, Danger” (always repeated three                                                      
times) which happened something like every five minutes in 
each episode due to that evil twerp Dr Smith.
Oh, that Dr. Smith, words cannot describe how much
we loathed him. But we loved that Robot, despite his
being, laughably simple, sort of like Lassie in tin foil, two
legs instead of four, and pincers he could use to pick stuff up
with. Otherwise, well, kids in high school these days build
more interesting robots that do ten times as much as that
state of the Art piece of rubber and tin. Plus he had no
personality like say, R2 D2. Now, It is almost impossible to                                                            
believe that “Lost in Space” and “2001 A Space Odyssey”
are exact contemporaries. Hal or The Robot with No Name,
which would you prefer  on an intellectual scale of 1 to 10?
It boggles the mind  that this series has been remade as a movie                                                      
and again as a  series and that there is a rumor of yet another
series in production.  And another  movie. Are we really that                                                          
stupid? We must be.  After all, we’re all on board with cameras                                                      
everywhere, as a good thing, and instead of living in the age of                                                      
Marx and Coca Cola, as Godard asserted was what the 60’s
were all about, we are living in the age of Facebook,
NSA constant surveillance, and marketing profiles that make
us into personalized ad targets rather than human beings.
And what’s crazier yet, we willingly give up vital information
without even being asked. Orwell was right but he was
off by a few years.



            Time Machines

Begin and end with H.G. Wells, though most
people these days only know the novel through
that cheesy movie made way back in the 60’s.
There is one aspect of that movie that cannot be
denied: it set the low bar standard for devices. 
That particular machine looked like one of those
take your picture machines that used to be everywhere
before everyone had a cell phone with a camera, sans
the curtain.  Given what selfies have become, it makes
one long for those machines, but that’s another story. 
The hero of the movie, Rod Taylor, didn’t have much
to work with, but he did keep finding himself propelled
through a blurry time warps into the past where he had
many, so-called adventures.  Still, the machine he had
at his disposal wasn’t nearly as flimsy as the cardboard
control room Flash Gordon had! Between that, and
the sad excuses for ray guns old Flash had, it’s a wonder
Buster Crabbe could keep a straight face while working
on the set. And those early state of the art TV
monitors.  Brings you back. Makes you think of those
early K-Pro Computers with their double sided,
double density floppy disks, post card seized monitors,
incredibly hard-on-the-eyes green lettering, and
that heart beat cursor that could give an epileptic
actual fits. But it had like 400 something k memory
and easy to remember commands that make you long
for the good old days every time a new version of
Windows is released. Still, the Time Machine movie
wasn’t nearly as bad as the sleazy, maybe even,
daft “Island of Doctor Moreau” movie with Marlon Brando
clearly under the influence of, well, something.
And then there was “Slaughterhouse Five”  which shows
the perils of mucking about in time could bring:
you could end up in a disaster film with every aging,
has been star on the decline, or worse, a young
Joan Collins.  Better to imagine an area where Wells,
Conrad, Henry James and Stephen Crane were virtual
neighbors.  What they could have done if they had
worked together. What Crane might have done of he
lived another ten years to the ripe old age of say, 40.