An Inner Space from Outer Space
          by Cladu Beresi We

From outer space, it came, a space ship from the planet Mars,
picked up by radar as it traveled to the planet Earth.
Anxiety was not observed from its approaching planned.
In fact, it seemed so peaceful there where it began to land.
Its outside smooth, advanced, as from some future world come.
One woman looked upon its scientific masterdom.
Placed in its gleaming belly, like an embryo set free;
she floated in its womb as if there was no gravity.
And there she was within that latticed cylinder alive,
there healing by a Force directed by one of the Wise.

Cladu Beresi We is a poet of alien life.


The Boeing 737 Max 8 and Max 9
          by Air Weelbed Suc

The Boeing 737 Max 8 and Max 9
have been suspended—nation after nation—bottom line.
The narrow body aircraft has now toppled from the charts;
it suffered one crash in October and one more in March.
The first in Indonesia, next in Ethiopia,
have caused the grounding of the planes across the Globe’s air space.
Although it is top of the line, nobody wants to fly
a jet that pilots can’t control, where many people die.
Black boxes have since been retrieved and sent to be looked at;
US and Canada asked France to check the data cache.

Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of aviation.


The Climbers
          by Waseel Budecir

They struggled up the rugged mountain slope.
Each step they took was difficult to take.
They longed to reach the top, for they had hope;
though it was only that that they could make.
Here was no Dantesque stairway they could climb.
Their muscles helped, determination too.
It didn’t hurt that they were tough of mind
and body, their each body, oh, through and through.
On Nanga Parbat was where they were found.
A team confirmed two silhouettes were there.
They were not moving on that roadless mount.
They were not moving in that frigid air.
Tom Ballard and Daniele Nardi died
up high at that ninth tallest mountainside.

Waseel Budecir is a poet of Pakistan, where one will find Nanga Parbat, over 8,000 meters high.


Like As an Oblamov
          by Rus Ciel Badeew

He sat upon the black futon, like as an Oblamov,
who wanted so to stay, and did not want to, o, get off.
He kicked back on his back and kicked his legs up in the air,
as if he were attempting to climb up a golden stair,
(but really wasn’t going anywhere, or getting there).
He placed his hands behind his head and spread his elbows out,
untaxed, relaxed, he asked himself, ‘O, what’s it all about?’
He slumped into the shadows of the afternoon’s delights,
untroubled and immobile, longing for a Zeitgeist’s heist.
He took deep breaths, as if he were about to make a move,
but he desired to remain in this, his isthmus groove.

Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russia. Oblamov is a character in a novel by Ivan Goncharov (1812-1891), who cannot make important decisions.


Alfred Tarski
          by Euclidrew Base

Born Alfred Tejtelbaum, but known as Alfred Tarski for
his work on model theory, metamathematic’s core,
and also algebraic logic and topology,
set theory, yes, and analytical philosophy.
Along with Kurt Gödel, he changed the vistas logic viewed
with work upon the indefinability of truth.
In cardinal, and ordinal, relation calculus,
as well as his absorbing deep cylindric algebra,
he, Alfred Tarski, strove to understand what he could see
and worked to grasp completeness and decidability.


Vienna Circle and Its Gang
by Euclidrew Base

The ambiguity of language was inimical
to the Vienna Circle, positive, empirical;
and yet, Kurt Gödel, showed them in one of his back-seat plumbs,
some propositions can’t be proven from all axioms.
What the Vienna Circle and its gang too soon forgot
was all of math and science comes from words their writers wrought,
that all the problems that one finds in prose and poetry
are there in math and science and in sociology.
The paradoxes that one finds in science can’t be banned,
though, like theology, their meaning’s hard to understand.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Alfred Tarski (1901-1983) was a Polish logician and mathematician. Kurt Gödel (1906-1978) was an Austrian logician and mathematican.


Censoring Elizabeth Warren
          by Brice U. Lawseed

Facebook had banned an ad by presidential candidate—
Elizabeth Warren. She said it should be broken up,
with Amazon and Google. Facebook could nip her in the bud;
but she had surely called them out for shutting down debate.
She said that she was “sick of [these] freeloading billionaires”,
as she attempted to stand out in Democratic lairs.
Of course, the Instagram co-founders were against her thoughts;
because they were not “nuanced”? like refined Big Technocrats?
She took her message to the South-by-Southwest Conference
& Festivals in Austin. Would it make a difference?

Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of DC.


30-Year Anniversary of the World Wide Web
          by Esca Webuilder

G-MAFIA and BAT are at a crossroads with AI;
tech giants strive to pave the World in their image, aye.
They tyrannize behavior with their overarching view;
mismanagement of user data is their platform too.
These nine, and other clones, attempt to monitor the World
and take away our freedoms with the platforms they’ve unfurled.
Tim Berners-Lee, the founder of the World Wide Web says that
we’ve got to stop this “downward plunge” that is “dysfunctional”,
address intolerance and crime, state hackers and state hacks,
misinformation and ad-based incentives in their tracks.

Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet. G-MAFIA is Google, Microsoft, Amazon, Facebook, IBM, Apple; BAT is Baidu, Alibaba, Tencent.


Pop Goes the Weasel—Zap!
          by Bud “Weasel” Rice

Located in the country, near Geneva, Switzerland,
the World’s largest atom smasher LHC at CERN,
suspended operations, when it went offline, because
some critter chewed into a kilovolt’s electric buzz.
I can confirm we had some issues, said Marsollier,
and it had taken them some time to get it up in May.
But the equipment’s fine, and it has easily been fixed;
although the creature was unfortunately fried to bits.
It chomped upon the power cable, getting quite a slap,
around the scientific bench—Pop goes the weasel—zap!


Black Jaguar Swipe
          by Bud “Weasel” Rice

Outside of Phoenix, Arizona, in the Litchfield Zoo,
a woman tried to take a picture where the jaguar stood.
The wildcat reached out to swipe her arm when she approached.
She’d crossed the barrier. On its enclosure she had poached.
There’s no way to stop people crossing barriers, it seems;
and taking pictures that are dangerous are some folks’ dreams.
And some times screams, when one’s been lacerated by fierce claws.
Although they may look very soft, don’t trust a feline’s paws.
The DNA is primitive that’s found in black jaguars;
and there is space between the lattice crossing of black bars.

Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of animals. Even when I try to walk an extra bit around my cat, he tries to swipe at me.


In the Backyard Canteen
          by Cale Budweiser

A young man, in a light-blue shirt upon a rich-brown deck,
stood draining a beer bottle into his absorbing head.
It always is the right thing to do, when in Germany,
out in the country, urbs, or suburbs, drinking merrily.
Another man was kneeling near, and drinking his beer too.
He also wore a light-blue shirt, a sponge of frothy brew.
Though neither man was smiling, they both seemed to be content,
near green nasturtium leaves and trees that rose around each gent.
Yet what amazed me most about those topers in that scene
was just how right it seemed to be in their backyard canteen.

Cale Budweiser is a poet of alcoholic beverages, wine, beer, and spirits Dio-nietzschean rather than Apollon-arian.


Vile Potabis
          by Aedile Cwerbus

In standard glasses, just the basic quaff is what you’ll get—
a local Sabine wine, Maecenas, home-brew you can whet…
an ordinary country wine that I have purchased at
a local store, not in amphorae, from a simple vat.

The days you had your triumphs when applause was thunderous
are over long ago, like you and Roman plunderers.
This wine has not been sealed with pitch; it’s thin and fairly bland;
and yet I am remembering the seven hills—that land.

A view of what once might have been the villa Horace knew
is little more than ancient stones in brush beneath the blue.
Falerian, nor Formian—these wines I do not know—
are grand crus here beside these trees outside Licenza, no?

Just what I grow in my own shady valley ‘s all I have.
I still recall your moments in the Sun on space-time’s ave.
The little villa you blessed Horace with is gone as well.
I wonder if some will remember in the future quell.


No Bacchus
          by Aedile Cwerbus

No Bacchus took me off to pathless woods; I went myself;
nor was I spurred to reach out there by any sprite or elf.
I simply liked to walk about the sword ferns and the firs.
Perhaps I loved it for the freedom and the barriers.
I climbed the trees and brushed their leaves and needles from my trails.
I danced about the elder alders whispering their tales.
I ran about the dappled sunlight falling through the boughs.
I felt content with life, at least as much as time allows.
But I know that I can’t go back. The woods, though bright and green,
perhaps no longer there abide and can no more be seen.


The Young Oak Tree
          by Aedile Cwerbus

Outside my study window, though the wind is blowing hard,
the young oak tree still holds fast to last year’s leaves yet in March.
Although all of the trees along the lane have shed their leaves,
our young oak tree holds to its old brown leaves tenaciously.
Some of the other trees are sprouting new leaves on the lane.
The situation is disturbing; it is very strange.
And yet I take a certain satisfaction in this tree;
for though not beautiful, it is inspi-r-ing to me,
reminding me to hold tradition fast, if tenuous,
as did Quintilian in his remarks on Ennius.

Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Latin poetry.


          by R. Lee Ubicwedas
          “Things as they are/ Are changed upon the blue guitar.”
              —Wallace Stevens

Who’s not unhappy with the way things are now in the World?
Who does not wish that he or she could change things as they are?
And though we wrangle, struggle, strive, against each other hurled,
I wildly and savagely play on…my brown guitar.
Combining, fabricating, juggling till some thing appears,
a buzzing, twanging banging and experience is peirced;
and when perhaps new idealities are made and neared;
the process is alchemic’lly produced, ferocious, fierce.
The anarchy of waters and the comedy of farce
reveal raging forces we cannot control or parse.