The Nurturing Tree
          by Secwer El Dubai
          “By 2070, the Gulf will be too hot for humans.”
              —Elfatih Eltahir, MIT professor of hydrology and climate

This year the country Qatar has Earth’s top per capita,
although its serf-like immigrants aren’t counted in the tab;
but they are there beneath the Doha panoramic view,
skyscrapers gleaming silver in the un-bear-a-ble blue:

Aspire Tower, like a giant gleaming torch at night;
Tornado Tower’s hour glass in hyperbolic flight;
flat pyramidal Sheraton with bunker on the top;
Al Fanal’s twisting spiralled minaret qua ziggurat;

the IM Pei Museum of Islamic Artist bling;
the Doha Tower with its Mashrabiya patterning,
with reinforced columnal dia-grid, lace-like façade;
the Hamad International; and Qatar Fuel Woqod.

But all’s not perfect in this rich niche on the planet Earth.
A Saudi-coalition has cut off Al Thani mirth,
for its support of Al Jazeera and terror in the blood,
al-Qaeda, ISIS, Hamas and the Muslim Brotherhood.

 

Secwer El Dubai is a poet of the Gulf States. Oil wealth has created a great deal of architectural wealth, as in the case of the tallest building on the planet, the Burj Khalifa. From the cahiers of Abdul Seecweir:

“The Burj Khalifa is the tallest building in the World, rising 2700 feet above Dubai, a shiny, tin-like, brilliant spiral minaret of stainless steel, finned, textured, spandrel panels, and aluminum; th’ exterior-used cladding to withstand the heat. A quarter of a million gallons flush its plumb diurnally. Outside below, its fountain’s jets shoot streams of water to Bassbor Al Fourgakum and many other songs. An observation deck on the 124th floor shows the jin, a miracle of oily cash-splashed derrick nets.”

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MOF-801
          by Ira “Dweeb” Scule

Although two-thirds of Earthians have water shortages,
a new device can generate H2O potages,
in desert air, by only using sunlight powering.
The time it takes to do it is completed hourly.
The black-top painted layer when exposed to solar light,
heats up releasing captured moisture from the air on sight.
The vapour in the said container, by condenser cooled,
converts it to a liquid o’er which thirsty throats can drool.
The metal-framework has been named MOF-801,
its microscopic, spongelike pores mixed with a copper foam.

 

Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a boring, studious, socially inept poet, who actually did enjoy going to “school,” which is the pronunciation of his surname. He likes tinkering and reading about inventors and inventions. His favourite American writer is Ben Franklin.

 

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Benfranklin Say
          by Wic E. Ruse Blade

Benfranklin say:
He who lie down with dogs
come up with fleas;
but he who have Borax
drive them to their knees.

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At Ecole Polytechnique Fédérale de Lausanne
          by Alberce Deswui

Led by Kosmas L. Tsakmakidis at EPFL,
researchers have remodeled K. S. Johnson’s bubble shell—
Q Factor—where a resonator has two likelihoods:
broad bandwidth OR long storing energy—misunderstood.
For now it seems that physicists and engineers displayed
a hybrid resonant, wave-guiding system that is made
of a magneto-optic substance that can stop a wave
and keep it, hence, accumulating energy that’s saved.
The limit, bested by a factor of 1000, means
the applications possible are greater than once seemed.

 

Alberce Deswui is an admirer of the New Millennial French philosopher Bruno Latour’s prose and his work in STS and ANT. He admires Latour’s advocacy of antimodernism, defending a much broader, less polemical Middle Kingdom, where there’s less fear of spirit, rationality, liberty, society, tradition and God.

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Ode on an Ocean Urb, or 48 Hours in LA
          by Cal Wes Ubideer
          for Dana Gioia

Touch down in LAX, an hour on the tarmac lanes,
oh, then one tries to flee from all the people and the planes.
At last one finds escape, an empty, giant corridor,
of walls and ceiling, windowless, and unappealing floor.
Outbound one waits for transportation, pick-up at the curb;
and so begins one’s journey in a built-up ocean urb.
One leaves behind the flying saucer seated on four legs,
air traffic’s towering control, and egg-white, lamp-light pegs.
One drops one’s baggage in the trunk and gets into the car,
and takes off for the highway, like a darting, shooting star.

One merges on to 105, and heads into the sun;
one speeds upon the concrete lanes along with old and young.
One travels eastward on the slightly curving, freeway’s range,
until one then arrives at the 110 stack interchange.
Next one goes northward past the campuses of USC
and enters downtown LA Metro in crazed ecstasy,
skyscrapers rising high above the palms along the way,
the hotels, banks, and business plazas, shiny, steely-gray,
that soar above the mind, names neatly posted at their tops,
before the concrete dance of the four-leveled swirling waltz.

One heads up 101 amidst the traffic curbed and curled,
bypassing East LA, the busiest in all the World;
past Capital’s turntable stack and HOLLYWOOD’s signed cast,
north by northwest, one drives across bland Cahuenga Pass.
One ends up at the Universal City for a night,
but cannot see the starry skies for all the neon light.
One listens to the tales of one century ago,
the founding of the studios, the manic, frantic flow.
There’s no time for th’ Observatory’s cosmic castle keep,
and after over twenty stories one falls fast asleep.

At dawn, one rises to the warming, waking and alive,
a breakfast ice, a nice repast, off to Mulholland Drive;
house after house precariously situated there,
along the rising, narrow, winding, road-dense laissez faire.
One motors past the Bowl to the beknighted Boulevard,
and Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, gauche, hideous and hard,
crowds gawking at the handprints, footprints, and the signatures
of entertainment personalities across the years;
the Walk of Fame of stars and names, along the dirty streets,
one looks in vain to find some peace or satisfying sweets.

One leaves behind Egyptian-Movie-Palace, lavish smarm,
and heads off to West Hollywood down Sunset’s funny farm.
One comes to the Rodeo Drive and Beverly-Hills stores,
the gaudy ostentation and the haughty semaphores.
The mansions in the hills are filled with fancy gardeners,
who drive Mercedes past the shade trees and the carpenters,
where walls and hedges mark the boundaries of the estates,
and nouveau riche create neat nests behind wrought-iron gates.
O, mindless-whimsy, stylistical illiterates
create faux French and Spanish flourishes on cigarettes.

From there it isn’t far off to the Avenue of Stars,
Fox Studios, and Century’s skyscrapered, business czars;
past Culver City’s plastic-rainbowed Sony Studios,
one travels by Marina-Del-Rey’s gleaming, harboured boats,
and north to thin canals of Venice in America,
wall-tattooed murals, beach, and whacky circus-like boardwalk.
Then off to Santa Monica, a pseudo South-of-France,
wood Pier with ferris wheel, carousel and seaside dance.
Where are the birds? Have they all gone up north to Oregon,
like seagulls on the dismal, gray-sand coasts of Washington?

One leaves behind the ocean and takes off for 405,
and if one stops, it’s at the Getty where one will arrive.
From parking, one rides on the hovertrain funicular
to art and architextures, if not too particular.
One climbs Sepulveda to 101 past twisted oaks,
dry chaparral, and alium’s white lollipopping pokes.
Then east to Burbank, Disney, Warner Brothers, NBC;
there’s Mickey-Mouse ears on the fence posts, dwarves upon the eaves.
Aft touring Universal, Psycho, Jaws, and City Walk,
one’s lying down to rest, shoes off, not far from Forest Lawn.

Wake up in Universal City, time to pack one’s bags,
a salsa omlette, waffle, juice, and coffee—human gas.
It’s time to flee the people and the places one has seen.
Morning commute, conjestion thick: Where is the golden mean?
Down Cahuenga Boulevard, down Vine and Rosmore Ave,
on to La Brea, missing Tar Pits, and the traffic’s laugh.
One goes on to La Cienega’s swamp of vehicles,
and cuts to La Tijera’s ditch past oil derrick culls.
One gets to LAX and gridlock, concrete berms and all;
and hides one’s patience as one inches to one’s terminal.

 

Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet and literary critic of the West, and California, in particular.