The Meaning Machines

Meaning isn’t immanent.
We make it.
We’re the meaning machines.
It’s we who name the stars
And say what’s sin
And insist on stories
That make no difference
To the moon or sun
And will be ground to bits
By the workings of the aging earth.

Who Are They?

Who are these gremlins
clawing at the world
to make it stop
and spin against
its gathering empathy,
back toward the
cackling
strutting
murderous
madness
we said we’d finally left behind?

More of the Same

What have we here?
The apotheosis of self-regard.
Civic virtue painted over.
Empathy made passé.
Truth drowned in talking points.
Corruption astrut in bespoke suits.
And a forecast calling for
More of the same.

Feathered Thieves

Feathered thieves
In ninja black
Along the cafe roof,
Half their eyes
Turned down,
Waiting out
The midday crowd,
Then swooping in
To lift some sugar packs
From table tops,
The disappearances
An apparent mystery
To management.