{"product_id":"terminator-isbn-9780525656630","title":"Terminator","description":"\u003cb\u003eLove, science, and politics collide in this sharp assessment of who we are now, in a generous selection of work by the award-winning poet.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe terminator--the line, perpendicular to the equator, that divides night from day--is the organizing concept for this collection, which examines a world where \"pert, post-apocalyptic \/ entertainment trades have trod the pocked \/ planet raw.\" Kenney's division of light verse from darker poems serves to remind us that what makes us laugh is often dead serious, and what's most serious can be best understood through wordplay, an ironic eye, the cleaving and joining magically effected by metaphor. With grace and candor, Richard Kenney thumbs through our troubles like a precious but scratched collection of vinyl: \"the nature of emotion's analog, while languages are digital.\" From \"Siri, Why Do I Wear a Necktie?\" to the eternal springing of love (\"Magnetic swipe to the blinking lock \/ is me to you\"), Kenney reminds us that art's the best weapon to maintain our wits in very challenging times.“Kenney’s work is as alive and thrilling and fully human as anything I’ve read. It’s the result of an extraordinarily curious mind and a world that is deeply felt—and it somehow includes us in that mind and in that experience. I read these poems and I see and think and (most astonishing of all) \u003ci\u003efeel\u003c\/i\u003e more acutely.” \u003cb\u003e—Jason Whitmarsh, \u003ci\u003ePoetry Northwest\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eRICHARD KENNEY is the author of four previous books of poetry: \u003ci\u003eThe Evolution of the Flightless Bird, Orrery, The Invention of the Zero\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe One-Strand River\u003c\/i\u003e. His work has attracted recognitions, among them the Yale Series of Younger Poets Prize, a Lannan Literary Award, the Rome Prize in Literature, and fellowships from the Guggenheim and MacArthur Foundations. He teaches at the University of Washington and lives with his family on the Olympic Peninsula.Chapter I.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnywhere \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot Paris\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur shimmer of days\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esucked through the howling wall-clock’s \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emacerating blades—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSigns\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSlung\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike an ancient\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebaseball\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eacross \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elong\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003espace\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epast Ursa\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMajor\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eenter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einvisible\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe Cybele\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeteor\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eunwelcome\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the Milky\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWay\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor so\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe’ll\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewager\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLook up, Alley Oop!—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epressure-flaking a flint core\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein your unflown coop,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDeep Time, that egg-blown\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eold dark under the Dordogne—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethere’s blood on your door:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomethings in the sky—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esomething’s scratched your cornea—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eblink. Don’t rub your eye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTell, Sibyl, huffing sulfur,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eintuiting tomorrow,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyour mind’s reticulum in shreds,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyour vital signs a horror:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey’ve seized the Cybele Meteor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey’re bringing it to Rome.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs that a good idea?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGaia grim in a black stone?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnywhere Not Paris\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1. Edges\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAbout the time one starts to grow suspicious\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the world, to lose one’s faith in edges,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003everges, borders, boundaries, that cusp\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecomes at which one’s own biology\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebegins to cross them with abandon. Bulge\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand salient balancing retreat: here hair-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eline and shrunk shank, there the more general her-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eniations supervene: belly occludes belt;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edewlaps brim the buttoned collar. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDeeper pattern shatters. Ventricular\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epercussions stutteringly muff the rhythm\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof a lifetime: lub-dub-dub: the world’s withering\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efire. Grotesque foreign proteins trickle\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethough the blood-brain barrier. Not-You\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eenters the city in triumph, to clarions and cheers,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhile You hammer the portcullis, howling. Does Nature\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehave edges? Tell me that, you smudge, you faint Venn\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ediagram whose membrane-lines have proven solvent\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the stream of things?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs words as vessels\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efail to hold their little maelstroms, all selves\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elose outline, so. Nouns leak; verbs leak worse,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand that’s the news. Our poor suppressor cells\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edon’t recognize us any more than What’s-Her-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eName, from whenever-it-was, fumbling words\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith me on the street the other day. She, too,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eshape-shifted like a blink of myth: Ishtar\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eResartus in a paisley shawl; Apollo reappareled\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein papyrus and bone—what a pair! \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSay, Siri—Pythia—what’s flesh anyway but shadow-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egarb a gone god’s doffed? If ours seemed a touch\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edéclassé, it’s only by unfair comparison\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith what divinity was wearing in—I want to say Paris,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1972?—Good grief, she was a pretty\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMuse!— \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd who’s not shapelier today than soon,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea thousand years or so from now, redistributed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eaccording to surfactant properties \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof Time? Her name?— I want to say Beauty,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethough it might have been Betty. The point is, even proper\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enouns bleed out like all the rest of us. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot the street, the bus. It was on the bus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2. Taxa\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo my friend the physicist, who still resembles\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehis yearbook picture, things seem simple.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAcknowledging her name, conceding her avian\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eproperties, her moods, her modes, her raving\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebeauty, he’ll insist she is a mammal, and feel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe firmer settlement of saying something real.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI ask: are avian dinosaurs, qua birds,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ereptiles? And then my friend and I have words.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e3. Under the Oculus\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTurn the mirror edgewise, time sideways,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eso to speak. Here’s the waist\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the hourglass, our porthole oculus,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecervix of the future\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhich, like everything accelerated,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eswells\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand thins:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethus\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ememory shreds in the solar wind,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe quartz porthole, bleb on a blowpipe, spills,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe skull rises through the face\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebehind its mica visor, slung in the centrifuge—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eno refuge: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elick the mirror like a glacier,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike aluminum in winter—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elick Antarctica, that’ll slow your bosons,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewon’t it? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e4. Unlikely,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe say, involuntarily invoking a Land of Unlikeness\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhere no echo augurs a far shore,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enothing accrues to a human cry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe mirror like Loch Ness\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecoughs up its plesiosaur.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA decade ricochets by.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHear the Doppler foghorn through the shaving glacier?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCheck its edges, calving.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHaving\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eread somewhere that certain sorts of humor \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edepend upon surprise, a sly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elow-slung irruption of the unexpected, I—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eoh, my!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s why the mirror gets so funny.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e5. Don’t make me laugh,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe say, meaning something like, No.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAbout the time we stop stropping like barbers these blades\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof nouns and verbs against the spinal cord,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe hard thought having once for all occurred\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethey’ll never prove keen enough to resect the clade\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom the light-waves washing all this flotsam in— \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAbout our lot: loss.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAbout the courage one might wish to summon,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eabout that sang-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efroid, the saying-goodbye sans tears—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAbout the time (as I was saying)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eone starts to grow suspicious of the lexicon, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto lose faith in defensible frontiers,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto sicken\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esomewhat before the calving berg\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the funhouse mirror (horribly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea liquid, as the pedant puts it), the glass bags \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein and out, flimmering like a windy bubble: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow here’s belt uncinched, subtending belly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enow debouching \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einto neighboring space—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFeel that elevator-lurch-and-pause?—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd now Biology\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike punched dough no more plump and jowly \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebugles its retreat: cheeks scoop; thews \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethin. The world’s fire withering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd still a good deal left to lose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e6. So, for the moment\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enever mind the Time Machine, that ever-cracking mirror, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esyntax, cervix of the sandglass, oculus, our kind’s quartz \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eporthole blown like a soapy bubble flimmering through the \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKuiper Belt and Oort Cloud, occluded at the terminator, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eminatory as it is in mind, always, us tongue-stuck, indistinct \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein a moon-calf wince windmilling backward—what an \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eimage!—into origins or epitaphs, it’s life, still, though \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethought stall, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand not the worst laugh ever laughed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Time Machine\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1. The Pantheon\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWatch, at the stoneless cope\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the open oculus, its keen kerf\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eslice Time. Acetylene sun—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eice moon—the strobe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eaccelerates. Earth’s verdure\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewinking in the onset: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einstants!—seasons!—eons!—the snow-globe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003espinning like a pitched ball back the coffered curvature,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eall its flakes a flurry of unsettling—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow wing-whirr of the four-foot dragonfly—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePock-ploops the early asteroidal rain-drum din— \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA blood-red placental moon drapes a third of the sky—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhoops!—now lithosphere slips like pudding-skin—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSyntax enters the ape—the world splinters— \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEnter invisible: the Cybele Meteor spins past Pluto—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePilot-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eless, queasy, we lisp Abort!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe time machine creaks to a halt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThrough its quartz porthole\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe page stretches, endless, white as salt. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2. When Are We?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter tree ferns, their whispery soughing;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eafter predator-drone-sized darning-needle’s whizz.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter armored fish\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edragged up clanking from the benthos.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter Amazon and Congo run confluent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCertainly after our one moon tore off, dripping, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut well before aurochs \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(great big aurochs bumping our cavewall, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eoilcanning our cavewall,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edenting it to get in!— \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea flock of handprints pushing back—)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter also smilodon, dawn horse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWell after that dead stegosaur\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith its plates unstacked,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eits veined tongue lolling, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edirt-stuck, breaded like schnitzel—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(note iridescence on the oily onyx shell\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the stag beetle staggering\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eup the medial valley\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the dead stegosaur’s lolling tongue—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eZoom out:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIridescence streaks the lens\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eagainst a thick galactic talc.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs though as hoar\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom a pane\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe great corrugated thumbnail of God\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003escrapes a starless line\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eacross the screeching empyrean—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e3. The Meteor\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWell, that was how it was. Maybe we dreamt it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat was a ride. Time torn open like a hydrant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat was sure hair unbound and lips apart,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elapels aflutter in the flume of the photon-torrent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe stood looking up, and a bit of iron scratched the oculus,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand that was just our luck, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estart to finish, we fishtailed, and treed, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand fell, and it didn’t kill us,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethough the hands horrored up\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand we hit the quartz screen, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand it starred.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMadsong\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOrigins suggest edges; \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emiddles, too, as also ends;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe horsehide baseball just so sketches\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ean arc from hickory to fence\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(whose little horse, just poodle-high,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eonce fled the sabertooth’s embrace)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut here the ball is said “to fly”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eabove the runner and the base,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe flaxen laces spinning, spun\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike inks in the Book of Kells;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethus Africa was somewhere once, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe Arctic somewhere else—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eas also, too, magnetic north\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand also, too, Polaris,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand this and that and so and forth,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003erecalling me to Paris:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI meant appearances, I think,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike a scholar in a study—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Keats Equation!—sing, sing,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esince her name must have been Beauty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eII. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eScience \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTuesday\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFragment\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s nothing any-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhere but guessing. [Frag. thirty-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efour, Xenophanes.]\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eConceptual Thinking\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA polyp would be a conceptual thinker if a feeling of “Hollo! thingumbob again!” ever flitted through its mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—william james\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRe Names:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFinical,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eperception \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eits pen-knife, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enerve-long\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elanguage\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efeels for an edge,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eteasing out the rim\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof a perimeter,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emuttering \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHollo?— Polyp\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto Apollo:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBob’s your uncle,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMr. James\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAgnostic Gospels\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDo I believe in Fahrenheit degrees?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf course I do, they’re real enough, as, please\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe little gods, also the little gods,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand big ones, too, but grudgingly, the odds\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eagainst them feeling somewhat longer. Muse,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etoo, who hardly ever calls. Also the news\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom what used to be called Frontiers of Science. Science!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat mortgaged curator of psychic sins,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein this case Curiosity: what killed his\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecat may serve his proudest faculties\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe same, since Reason scums its petri dish,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eendangered now, with every wilting wish.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut weren’t we speaking of belief? Schrödinger’s cat?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat’s reason got to do with that?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReason May Not Mean to Be the Sophist\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSlip the Problem from its sleeve. The vinyl’s\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003escratched. And that’s the problem, finally:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe nature of emotion’s analog,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhile languages are digital. Too few long-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eplaying feelings, inkily remastered,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elong survive by heart. This mystery\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eruns deep, requiring deeper magics. Look, we\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esay, by darksome sleight ventriloquy,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ereferring to a nerve potential triggered\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eby a pressure in the world, recurring\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enow in a lung, in a laugh, in a poem of Sappho’s.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSchrödinger’s Elephant\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce upon a time in Copenhagen\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe blind men met to scratch the quantum noggin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey hashed things out, agreeing to decree\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat the wave function of the pachyderm\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecollapses into rope, or spear, or tree,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor fan, or wall, as senses will confirm,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut only when the moment’s brought to measure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTill then, it’s all-and-none. It’s worse than Escher.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe key, you’ll note, is human observation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHuman?— How in heaven’s name?—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe answer’s \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emathematical as all Creation,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einvolving Probability and Chance. . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLaypeople simply can’t—look, no offense,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut try now not to think of elephants.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eScience Tuesday\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first human-chimpanzee chimera,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003echristened Pan sapiens, was born today\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat Brigham and Women’s Hospital, in Boston.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Hubble’s Very Wide Spool camera\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eregained partial function of its data\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emodule, and is now on track for the Sirius starburst.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDr. 32B, chief of research at Merck, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eagain replied, “No comment.” “Ever,” he added, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto op-ed columns suggesting he’s hostile to the Press.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Sentient Rover, assembled in America\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom Chinese parts, parked since Saturday\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein a no-load zone on Mars, appears depressed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSpokesmen for the Generation Meerkat\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEnergy Corp. assured critics that the shudder is soldered,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estressing again that “containment vessel” is at best\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea metaphor. The starburst—a miracle!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe drug had side effects. The Rover broke. The “baby satyr,”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePan sapiens, died at his surrogate mother’s breast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was hard to look at, she is reported to have said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePan sapiens 2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first human-chimpanzee chimera\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elooked searchingly into the shaving mirror.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis hairline—was it?—yes, it was advancing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother blow, albeit only glancing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor, having clever fingers (who’d forced fire?)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehe’d simply boost the amps in his blow dryer. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLater, glaciers shrank from their moraines.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeas rose above the knees of fishing cranes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVenice, once resembling Tycho’s Mars\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enow swamped like Venus, where the brontosaurs\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003erent heaven with hoarse hoots in praise of gods\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho lent such swanny necks to sauropods.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd if you can’t believe a noon so strange,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003econsult your own defunct nouns, for a change.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Blank Slate\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eConcerning Common Ancestors, in verse:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMight chimpanzees once raised by bonobos\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ereach deep into your trousers and propose\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eengagements polymorphous and perverse?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho knows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr would (here note initial terms reversed)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea bonobo by chimpanzees once nursed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand raised to adolescence come to blows,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor worse?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe question is an old one, cast in fable—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe oldest one, maybe, rephrased by Abel,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emarking Cain, the line forever cursed—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethough what an ape’ll\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esay to that (in ASL, of course,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eif non-recursive, and a touch terse)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emay not refer to the matter of the Apple,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor Ancestors\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat all. Or Babel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd never mind what it means to say “refers.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePan sapiens 3\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am Pan sapiens. I don’t speak well,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand so I write. Some say I look like hell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI think that’s hard. I think I look like you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePan in, however—never mind the view:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou’ve seen it all your life, the diorama\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estinking with the crowd of us, from Rama-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epithecus to poor Neanderthal,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho’s lost his lisp at last, and, standing tall\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epeers like any fool into my eyes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhere once upon a time, a wild surmise—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow, dip your quill into the pupils’ ink:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eit isn’t how we look. What is it? Think.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Arcturan Vivisectionist Explains\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis specimen’s common name is Mirroreye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eObserve (retractor, please) just here—a rare\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enon-adaptive anomaly in the so-called “third\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elid”—common enough, of course, in lizards, birds,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esharks, et al., all perfectly unremarkable, save\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat the nictitating membrane is silvered\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einside, enabling these creatures to see themselves\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ereflected everywhere: in wood-grain, in moon, in clouds,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein others of their kind, even; also imparting an odd,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enot uncrabwise aspect to their gait, backing hell-bent,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eheadlong, as it were, into what’s already happened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHorcrux: A Romantic Landscape \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—as scored for crumhorn by edward lear\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou need some genes for jumping,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut none for not jumping too high,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esince that information is stored on location,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebetween the earth and sky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur ancestors hadn’t to worry\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eabout too many sweets before lunch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat protected their livers? The veldt could deliver\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ejust so many berries per bunch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMemory is a secretion\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eexternally fertilized, so,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat a landscape revisited still may elicit \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea shiver from ancient snow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSome writers have interesting minds;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emost don’t. Yet by poem or novel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethey somehow find thoughts the way tubers in plots\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emay surface, when stirred with a shovel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe brain thinks it does all the thinking,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut likely it doesn’t, at that:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etoo much information is stored on location.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt couldn’t be done from a vat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs birds need genes for flying\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut none for returning to ground,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand the human mind is not born blind\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto the conditions of its surround,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eif the world’s a bouquet of answers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto the questions the senses pose,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eits lies of omission would be the conditions\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat Heaven only knows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eForget what you can’t imagine,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe edge of the measure of man:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esince what’s unfurled as the sum of the world\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emust be what you can.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd that’s not terrible news.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt means we are some place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s some reassurance. Where it leaves the Arcturans?—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Lunch is served. Say grace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBrains in a Vat\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStep inside, please, spake the elevator,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehissing, reminiscent of Lord Vader\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ealso in its little shudder. Later,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elobbed, too, through the black hole labeled Vela\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eX-1, judging by an indicator\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eblinking upward through the blank abyss\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebetween the tenth and millionth floors, the Muse\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof Relativity would disabuse\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eme of my geocentrism, for this\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewas Einstein’s gravitational caboose,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand I was in a thought experiment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr was one, which is what I might have meant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStill, the simplest things seem paramount:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat elevator talked, and I can count.","brand":"Knopf","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303185535205,"sku":"NP9780525656630","price":28.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780525656630.jpg?v=1767737919","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/terminator-isbn-9780525656630","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}