“O Java Tide”
The chilly waters of the night
are not the night.
The ratchet of my anti-theft
device scrapes in a silent car;
the lone drive’s left.
The frigid margins of the dream
are not the dream.
I venture onto foreign soil
in search of rapture & to spring
a hoar gargoyle.
I trail no saving string.
The frozen surface of my life
is not my life.
AI is now auto-enabled in gmail by default.
“I’ll have the cashier draw you up a check at space rates–no, say word rates–half a cent a word is all we can pay–but that’ll be twenty-six bucks. Five of the twenty-six, however, will have to go to the mathematics professor who fixed me up with the actual figures that are set forth in the story. He had to compute them out for me, with logarithms.” —The Face of the Man from Saturn
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