THE GEORGE SANTAYANA CONUNDRUM

THE PAST REPEATS ITSELF
or
THE TALE OF JULIAN THE APOSTATE
or
GIAMBATTISTA VICO’S DREAM OF SPIRALING CYCLES
or
YOUR PICK:

BONAPARTE NAPOLEON – LET’S MAKE FRANCE GREAT AGAIN

BENITO MUSSOLINI – LET’S MAKE ITALY GREAT AGAIN

ADOLF HITLER – LET’S MAKE GERMANY GREAT AGAIN

DONALD TRUMP – LET’S MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN

Or. . .

ACRONYM

The controversy between which is the more important, the PIs or HIs

Artificial Intelligence(AI), according to our intelligent sources, will soon become a reality.  Science Fiction is populated by AIs, some friendly, some malevolent;  Malevolence makes for a more exciting story so we gravitate toward stories of evil AIs.  But why is no one discussing the dangers of Human Intelligence(HI). Global Warming is the product of HI.  But as most gardeners know the PIs have it over HIs.  Plant Intelligence.  They know what they need, even if we don’t.

PIs Vs HIs

AIs – absurd, no one is discussing the dangers of human intelligence. Global Warming is the product of Human Intelligence or HI.  But most gardeners know that PIs have it over HIs.  Plant Intelligence.

ANXIETY

In need of a foothold, Anxiety, fidgety,
drops to our feet, pecking the ground nervously.
The earth trembles, the invisible clouds
cover the sun. Anxiety, wide winged, once
gnawed at the immortal liver of a god,
relentless; but our anxiety resembles
no other life forms. It’s not an eagle, noble;
nor are we gods, impoverished. Anxiety’s a child,
the homunculus in each of us, without content,
but never content, restless, in need of perch, preferring
the seed of even the smallest discontent to peace.

 

AT DUSK

At dusk, the fireflies in silent fulmination,
drifting upward, like fleeting stars shooting
skyward, caught askance on a black screen
of probability, seen then unseen, possibly, yes,
in the settling darkness, in the quickening
shadows of coming night. They are a tribe
beyond our realms of noise. A room full
of conversation intimated, then quietly fulfilled.

 

THE INNOCENCE

We are kindled when born, small fires, if lucky,
cupped by the gentle hands of loving parents,
a tinder box full of innocence that gives light.
But innocence is a soft wood, easily consumed.
It blazes unevenly, a green wood flaring with the wet sap
of adolescence. The good of the world is still inside us
but a thousand sparks rush upward like stars, blinding us
with their brightness. We become what we see, a fire burning
with the boldness of new desires as we consume more
than we need. It’s then our innocence is spent
in what we call the awakening, the first chill
of a perverse disappointment seeping through our universe,
the cinders cooling. Decades pass until rediscovered
0ur dreams preserved in the amber of our youth.