Mos Eisley
architecture (brown, beige, brick)
squats just above
the dirt and gravel lots.
Some water lawns,
insouciant of waste.
Jets wet
pedestrians as pass them by.
The street looks
painted by De Chirico
in clear light of
the Valley of the Sun.
Ronald McDonald
sits upon a bench.
The swallow-swooped
and dragonfly-patrolled
soft capillaries in Tempe Canal
are silken static
on a laptop screen.
A hummingbird
investigates one's bike,
which looks like
sunset or orange trumpet blooms.
These spring forth
from the fence through which they thrust
impetuously outward
to invite
the bees and
hummingbirds to come on in.
A bee with brown
bands alternate with tan
investigates one
thoroughly, as though
the fellow of that
species that one met
perhaps one half a
mile away had sent
her mate a text and
triggered their whole hive,
smart as a five
year old and curious,
to check out
anything detected twice
and fill out a
report in triplicate.
She lingered near
one's bike until one rolled
along the satin
band amid a crunch of wheels
and truck track
tread and trample grooves in dirt
and some relief to
be thus rid of her.
Albeit she is worth
the filling out
of a report in
triplicate in blank
verse that outlasts
and lofts above the fret
she caused one's
spirits momentarily.
They'd think like a large language module does.
The numeration that
AI performs
of human languages
reminds one hives
can think through
pheromonal interchange
and opening and
closing logic gates.
A similar
intelligence rides steeds
out of humanity in
general, as
the noosphere of
Vernadsky, De Chardin
astride the bucket
fountain of our Lord.
A thing may be a plot, of course it may;
and also it may be a Chinese room
totalitarian hysterical
stampede. The rulers and the ruled are ruled.
One sings now of
His creatures' structuring
their meaning in an
analogic form
with pantomime and
otherwise so saying
heart and thence
their mind abundantly;
thus see the world
around alive in speech
by way of
pheromonal, gestural,
and other conduits,
not understood
as yet but known
for information-rich.
The whale song as
the forest speaks its mind;
the more so as it
senses someone knows
to watch out for
the waggle dance of bug
& beast, logs
into internets of bird
song, orisons and
gratefulness at dusks;
as rhizomes crackle
with the evening news;
as volatile organic compounds zip
between the gossips known as plants & trees;
as trance remixes
of the biosphere
weave melodies into our tapestries
with birds and beasts
and Everyman and God.
The spirits speak in languages of fire
and water differently with every state.
We're simultaneous with flesh and blood.
A bulging creamy
gibbous swiftly sinks
down towards the
silhouettes of roofs & palms.