usurper

"Emergency!" Trump screams, and tries to seize
the power to set tariffs on a whim.
But Congress rules on taxes, coins, and fees
and can't--in good faith--delegate to him.
Courts have affirmed--in our democracy--
that power lies with Congress, as does tax.
They don't subscribe to Trump's "REALITY"
they stand on precedent, and stodgy facts.
Tripartite government's been known to work
while men defend the Legislature's Hill.
But now, with Congress captured by the Jerk
no one's responsive to the People's will.
"Appeal to Heaven"s now what it's about.
In much the way we threw the British out.

last days

Obrien now confesses; Biden won
although he quails to contradict his boss.
The People spoke; one more election's done.
And TrumptyDumpty's fallen for a loss.
Before the year is out, he'll face he ax
for manifesting such temerity.
Trump's woefully intolerant of facts
that don't fit his bespoke reality.
Trump's legal budget's looking pretty short
for all the cases pending scant months hence.
He's spending 2021 in court
and urges donors to pay his defence.
Come January, Biden's up at bat
but first, we must defeat a cornered rat.

apparition

Pink clouds of cherry blossoms levitate
upon a sea in countless shades of green
a challenge for the mind to contemplate
within three pounds of squishy wet machine.
If clouds wax pink, why need a sky be blue?
and must your lexicon comport with mine?
The frequencies reflected set the hue,
but conversation's tinted by each mind.
The qualium evoked when you see "red"
might differ from what I call by that name.
I can't know what goes on inside your head,
'though lazily, I treat the two the same.
A vernal contemplation en pleine air
is pretty, 'though I can't be sure what's there.

lala land

"...they  took the airports!" Now he's on a roll.
Trump blithers when he's got nothing to say.
His writers cringe; he's so out of control.
The tranquiler gun's too far away.
Tomorrow, they'll dismiss it as "a joke"
"of course the president knows history!"
But shit he makes up when he's high on coke
affords his critics much hilarity.
Mike Pence must know the 25th by rote
and how succession works--when it's the  case
when there's no time to put it to a vote--
but Trump's more functional than half his Base.
The satirists are drowning in their cups
When Trump's reality's what he makes up.

1066

All history's contingent; day by day
each choice makes universes twin, and fork.
Olde England might have gone another way
had Hardrada not left his mail at York.
For Edward's heir, both battles came too late;
the fyrd that watched the straits perceived no harm
October found few souls to share his fate;
the conscripts served their time, went home to farm.
The French domesticated their own Norse
they drank more wine than beer, these quondam Danes.
But Norway kept the war-blood hot, of course
full-armed they'd devastate the Northern Thanes.
Whole empires hang upon a change of wind
and whether popes opine one king had sinned.

echo chamber

When Eminem and Limbaugh've jumped the ship
there's no alternative from which to choose.
Trump's minions have to wake to this bad trip
they scan in vain for cheerier fake news.
An epistemic universe so shut,
their minds are battened, locked, and barred, and trussed.
The New York Times ain't gonna make the cut; 
they know just whom they don't, and whom they trust.
Reports are "fake" if they're not from the team
the tribal narrative's just for the base
insisting their delusion's not a dream
eyes firmly shut against this scary place.
More opiates sedate them, day by day.
But this dystopia won't go away.

Why not?

Causality's a figment in your head
the meta-tool on which the rest depend
inhabiting a "now" to which "past" "led".
We're over-quick to think we comprehend.
Frail daisy-chain links 'after' to 'before',
induction builds the cosmos we discern
but we delude ourselves to think it's more
than Turing's robot feigning it can 'learn'.
Imputing agency avoids some threats;
what rustles in the grass might be a beast.
Darwinian selection pays those bets
who flees the quickest get devoured the least.
It's human to presume that we are wise
but most of what we 'know' are our own lies.

Walter Mitty

Trump seems compelled to self-mythologize
as if assertions somehow make it true
but journalists who call him on his lies
can find their press-pass passed to someone new
by his account, the sun shines when he speaks
'though all the audience was getting wet
it doesn't take a source of inside leaks
to document what he'd have us forget
he seems to find reality a bore
repaying what he's borrowed's such a drag
his pipe-dream schemes are always so much more
that what he ever brings home in the bag
this erstwhile bankrupt "master of the deal"
seems not to know what's fantasy, what's real

other maps

our  coprophilia must mystify
the dogs whose poop we scoop like some rare gem
they're quite content to squat and let it lie
out motives are inscrutable to them
and whales can't dream that we don't comprehend
how sound reflects from mackerel, or krill
the characteristics that make it bend
to them are utterly run of the  mill
and what's reality's map among eels
who sense the lifeforce sure as Obi Wan
their flesh and neurons coupled to the fields
that propagate where light of sun is gone
however much one might philosophize
you can't know what's behind another's eyes

ukase

the purge of scientists is just the start
when autocrats establish top-down rule
we take the Stalin precedent to heart
remembering Lysenko was a tool
the science can't be bent to his decree
Karl Rove can't dictate what is, and what's not
Trump's not the master of reality
once off the sound-stage, Arctic's getting hot
twelve million starved to prove Lysenko wrong
crops don't evolve to suit the boss' whim
most botanists had known it all along
but dead men never contradict Trofim
deniers who enjoy the Donald's ear
eschewing Science, put their faith in Fear

windows on the soul

through seven apertures, the world peers in
these breaches in our heads let us see out
the thinking mind needs inputs to begin
but none of it's secure beyond a doubt
phantasms posture as reality
we could be dreaming that we're butterflies
events that populate my memory
could be a flimsy fabric of half-lies
that "mind" is what "brain" does fails to explain
what consciousness is, or why it's so dear
and qualia like "red" or "joy" or "pain"
should be the same in your head as in here
the skull's a pretty insubstantial shell
to circumscribe a Heaven, or a Hell

reason's limits

each mind's an island, girt by the unknown
induction can't construct a causeway thence
unable to disprove it's not alone
behind deduction's awesome, perfect, fence
Descartes gets us as far as "cogito"
that sets the furthest uncontested mark
but one step further, if one wants to go
is treading on the water, in the dark
a bridge stands on conjecture, step by step
unbuttressed save by fallible eyes, ears...
increasingly uncertain with each rep-
etition, massive castles built on air
philosophizing's fun 'til it goes bad
the wisest cede they may be seen as mad

Ahoy!

Each mind's alone, at sea on the wide world
conjecturing what might exist "out there",
displaying, beyond hope, its flag unfurled,
'cause perfect solitude's too much to bear.
Is there another, somewhere in the Blue
perhaps displaying such a flag for me?
Or do I merely fantasize a "you"
that can't be know except inductively?
For Deutsch, like Keats, aesthetics are the test,
equating Truth with Beauty on a dare,
a slim foundation on which worlds should rest
but infinitely better than despair.
Deductively, we're stuck with "cogito"
beyond that, naught's demonstrably just so.

imitation game

the other's mind is more than one can know
it might be all projections on our part
deductively, we're stuck at "cogito"
extrapolating both a mind and heart
each mind's alone, at sea on the wide world
our neurons might be firing on a lark
but no one dwells on that when boy meets girl
to make some fun communing in the dark
if there's no world "out there", all action's vain
and there's no reason to get out of bed
no value in my pleasure, or my pain
if this construction's all inside my head
philosophizing's fun, 'til it turns bad
to doubt there's one to love, could drive one mad

bad things happen

John Calvin preached prosperity on Earth
reflected God's immeasurable grace
so it's enough to weigh a bloke's net-worth
to judge if he be virtuous or base
but those who'd argue God resides within
remake their world with quotidian acts
instead of a religion built on sin
they build their heaven fact by sweaty fact
were faith enough, one would be free to lie
and cheat and murder kith and kin and wife
repenting in the moment ere he'd die
erasing all the malfeasance of life
predestination ditches quid pro quo
but heaps a Hell of guilt on those below

relativity III

the laws of Newton just approximate
the special case where space-time's nearly flat
but Albert Einstein dared to formulate

the broader rules regardless where one's at

subjectively, a century's ticked past
since he first published relativity
coordinates can't but conform to mass
attested by the path of Mercury

no rail embankment's constant as a rock
by which to calibrate measuring sticks
and now Lorentz has smashed our very clock
the rest can change and only 'c' is fixed
yet fuzziness still dogs the smallest size
until we know if gravity's quantized

Relativity II

subjectively, a century's ticked past
since Einstein published relativity
coordinates can't but conform to mass
attested by the path of Mercury
the laws of Newton just approximate
the special case where space-time's nearly flat
but Albert Einstein dared to formulate
the broader rules regardless where one's at
a rippling mollusc undergirds his grid
in non-Euclidean geometry
complexity can no longer stay hid
in contemplating space-time at high 'g'
no rail embankment's constant as a rock
by which to calibrate measuring sticks
and now Lorentz has smashed our very clock
the rest can change and only 'c' is fixed
yet fuzziness still dogs the smallest size
until we know if gravity's quantized

relativity

the parabolic arc of my dropped book
becomes a line in 'nuther ref'rence frame
when what I see depends on how I look
it takes some thought to see that they're the same
Minkowsky tosses even that bedrock
and Gauss would liberate us from the plane
Lorentz deprives us of our very clock
and leaves it all for Einstein to explain
coordinates can't but conform to mass
and Newton just described a special case
a neighborhood devoid of even gas
a Galilean inter-stellar waste
we celebrate what we can dimly see
a hundred years* of relativity


*in my subjective reference frame

action potential

continua impinge on eye and ear
but nerves transduce at once from A-to-D
and so it's only quanta that we hear
no less than it's by photons that we see
to propagate one trips an ion-gate
and only then does anything get done
there's no smooth curve for one to integrate
the increments are never less than one
yet minds construct "reality" out there
and I suppose the same goes for a bat
'though theirs is built from echoes in the air
announcing just exactly where food's at
brains conjure mind like oysters conjure pearl
and nothing's magic here despite John Searle

dimensions

geometry precludes tube-in-a-tube
for animals constrained to be 2-D
a one-way gut would split the beast in two
without a hope of contiguity
a third dimension, bridging what's been cut
allows a complicated body-plan
connecting mouth to anus with a gut
be it a crocodile, or louse, or man
but Strings want ten in Space and one in Time
imagination boggles at the task
to sketch a world that won't fit in one mind
and yet we feel compelled at least to ask
a scherzo on dimensionality
finds wide horizons once one gets past three