David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                              "Malaga Mural"

Eric Robert Nolan- Three Poems

"The Writer"

At night he dreamt of birds, thou­sands of them,

impris­oned in his house.

Ravens screamed in the attic.

Spar­rows pan­icked in the hall.

He sat at his desk.   A Jay pecked

Fran­ti­cally at his shirt sleeve.

The base­ment door revealed

Tor­rents of finches, erupt­ing in the dark

A loud gray storm

Of beaks and tiny claws.

Seag­ulls suf­fered in the cup­boards.

Para­keets in the rafters, trapped,

Raged in Etruscan.

He crossed the room.

Owls

Moaned under the floorboards.

Twelve red car­di­nals

Lined his kitchen shelves –

A dis­cor­dant jury.

Pea­cocks plead in the oven.

In a jar of sugar

Tit­mice strug­gled for air.

At his desk were

Pho­tographs, let­ters

Pens and a half dead Marten.

He reached for his old brown afghan but felt

Bone and feather

The heav­ing brown breast

Of a starv­ing eagle.

Some­times the scratch

Of pen against paper brought

Respite from birdsong:

Two less wings against the silence

One less voice in that

Trou­bled aviary.

A par­rot perched

On his paper stacks.

“Remorse,” it offered fee­bly.

“Regret,” he answered back.

"The Secretary"

Skin and cir­cuitry,

Metal and flesh.

Her dreams of child­birth were

Relent­less, recur­ring.

Push, push, push

Said a midwife’s mechan­i­cal voice.

Flu­o­res­cent lights flick­ered,

Then mur­mured dis­cor­dantly.

Coarse starched sheets

Scratched her knees.

Machines hummed in corners.

She pushed.

The prod­uct of her womb was hard —

Edges and angles

Against her inner thighs.

And at the end of that dif­fi­cult birth, look­ing down,

She saw coils and coils of bright cop­per wire.

By day, she was a sec­re­tary.

Peo­ple liked her.  Not enough, though,

For Valentine’s, dates, anniversaries.

With furtive eyes, she observed

All those lit­tle moments

That enchant a com­mon life.

So, she only worked.

Phone, file, phone.

Push, push, push.

At times, she imag­ined her womb

As a ges­tat­ing clock.

Its metic­u­lous gears

Marked the pas­sage of time.

Bat­ter­ies moved her limbs, her veins

Were wires in her skin.

She hid cir­cuits

Behind her eyes.

Elec­tric­ity rid­dled her brain –

Warm lightning.

Return­ing home one night,

She passed a fac­tory on her right.

Its smoke­stacks vaulted up

Like tur­rets.  The lights there

Were stacked stars.

Its fence hummed.  The smoke­stacks

Exhaled rhyth­mi­cally

Push, push, push.

A metal shed was there –

She imag­ined it had

A piston-​​beating heart

A mus­cled metronome –

Life in a bright steel box.

Arriv­ing home, her spine

Tick­led with cur­rent.

She reached her garage and parked.  Blue sparks

Danced in her sinuses.

Push, push, push,

Said a mid-wife’s mechan­i­cal voice.

She pushed some oily rags

To seal the open spaces

Beneath her garage door.

In her brain,

Machines hummed in corners.

She pushed the car’s igni­tion.

The air there nour­ished her, then.

The car­bon monox­ide

Push, push, pushed her.

She shut her eyes.

Her gears slowed softly.

"The Bureaucrat" 

Amity in his veins,

The gray, aging bureau­crat

Lit a cigarette.

He spied ice on a win­dowframe

How unlike its blue-​​cold form

Were the words of indus­try – warm.

Like sun­light on a mon­u­ment,

The bright hues of a flag,

Warm – like the ring­ing endorse­ment

Of a prod­uct or a plan.

Like the gaily col­ored cov­ers

Of an annual report.

Warm – like the newly dead.

© Eric Robert Nolan 2013

BIO:  Eric’s poetry and short stories have been featured by Dagda Publishing, Every Day Poets, Every Day Fiction, Illumen, Under The Bed, Dead Beats Literary Blog, Microfiction Monday Magazine, Dead Snakes, Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine, The Bright Light Cafe, Aphelion, Tales of the Zombie War, The International War Veterans’ Poetry Archive, and elsewhere.  His poems were also included in anthology format in Dagda Publishing’s “Threads” in September 2013.  Eric’s science fiction/horror short story, “At the End of the World, My Daughter Wept Metal,” was published in January 2014 in Dagda’s short story anthology, “All Hail the New Flesh.”

Jennifer Lagier- A Photo

                                                "Wall Angel"

 

Sudeep Adhikari- A Poem

Tao of Noise

 

Infinity is no more

than a fraction

tripping on noise and relations

when some feedbacks loop in

to create the little recursion of "Know Yourself"

with some gizmos and blinks.

 

An identity of the opposites;

between single and the multiple

between absurd and the sublime

and between me and you

leaves no space

same shit, different orders.

 

with each poem

I try to be that infinity;

the scorching sound-grinds of Michael Gira,

the seething heat of Jung's Hell-fire

or that astral window into the Bardo-Land

of Dakinis, demi-gods and undead Buddhas;

M.C. Escher's impossible universes,

David Lynch's Earserheads

Dr. Dennis Upper's paper on

"The Unsuccessful Case of self-treatment of
a Case of Writer's Block"

and Rauschenberg's white paintings.

 

All are empty and full

Noisy and pop

at the same time.

 

with each bottle of time,

cocktailed with wine

I realize that chaos

is the very fabric of my existence

and is the "Mother of all things"

as Lao Tzu once said thousands of years ago;

"Before Heaven and earth, there was something nebulous

Eternal and alone, silent and void

the mother of all things

I don't know its name

I call it Tao".

(First appeared online on The Peregrine Muse, Feb 2016)

Joan McNerney- Three Poems

Shhhhh...

There is a

witch living

on the corner

where the four

roads meet.

Her eye is

evil, her

nose crooked.

She lays down

the tarot

pattern

with wrinkled

hands.

Asks "do you wish

tea of wormwood

or henbane?"

She will enchant

your mind now

into fields of

wild roses.

I planted my garden

on the wrong side

of moon forgetting

tides of ocean

lunar wax wane

only madness

was cultivated

there underground

tubular roots

corpulent veins

flowers called

despair gave off

a single fruit...

I ate it

my laughter

becoming harsh

my eyes grew

oblique.

Methuselah Speaks

Living in shadows I scarcely stir.

Each motion brings pain with fear

of falling, breaking brittle bones

or bruising my spider web skin. 

I see so little.  Sunlight blinds my

rheumy eyes.  Night dims my world

leaving just vague outlines.

Food is stale, bitter.  Thirst savage. 

No liquids quench me.  My bodily

functions often fail befouling me.

All these years weigh down my soul.

Hearing faded, everything in whispers.

My breath is raspy, without strength.

My mind dull with defeat.  I count only

my losses and remember nothing

but the dead.  My memory is pain.

I cannot celebrate births. My great

grandchildren died so long ago. 

Why must I  always wait here?

God, have you forgotten me?

Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Camel Saloon, Blueline, Poppy Road Review, Spectrum, three Bright Hills Press Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publications.  She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net. 

Rebecca Cowgill- Three UFO Haiku

the alien and me

share a handshake

ending our negotiations

New Year's Eve

spaceships invade

the black night sky

phoning for an ambulance

an alien found unconscious

in a crashed spaceship

Bio:

Rebecca Cowgill's small poems can be found in Poems and Poetry, The Poet Community and Dead Snakes.

 

 

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

They are outfitting

the loons better

wherever that is,

I thought as he made

his way to the end

of the bar, sat down

and began a casual

conversation with an

alien presence in

another dimension.

I ordinarily don’t like

to interrupt private

conversations but

it is my job to ask

people what they

want to drink.

He treated my inquiry

as the worst kind of

felonious assault,

began deep breathing,

inhaling, as if he were

trying to suck the air

out of my lungs.

I watched for awhile

wondering how long

he could go on in this

manner, thinking, maybe

forever the way he was

working the air, so I

said, “There’s a ten dollar

cover charge for the air.

Pay up or leave.”

That brought him back

to earth and fast.

Abducted

He had the air

of someone not long

for this world or

someone not long in it,

take your pick.

Was wisp thin,

anemia pale,

scarecrow tall

and able to repel

creatures simply

opening his mouth

as if to speak.

Uttered sounds so

guttural and confused,

something inside of

him must have been

congenitally deformed

or deliberately altered

to prevent his telling

where he had been

taken and how he

got back.  Could

have been a star at

Alien Abduction

conventions if he

could have spoken

clearly of his ordeal

but this was not to be.

Better luck next time

is all you can think

to say.

Putting a New Face on the Homeless

Outside mall by

exit lights, homeless

man stands dressed in

second hand rags and

an ET rubber mask.

Holds a Homemade sign

that says, ”Need Cash

                To Phone Home”

You had to give him

extra credit for ingenuity

as you fumble for loose

bills, change.

Stefanie Bennett- Two Poems

Stefanie Bennett is of mixed heritage [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee].

Born in Townsville, Qld., Australia her latest poetry title was published by

Walleah Press and is available from Walleah, Amazon and Fishpond

Books.

 

 

 

TOWER           

 

Fetch me a line, one that won’t

Prop up the Nation.

 

Moon, toss back the dog – it’s

Given you narcolepsy.

 

Be damned you horn-locking

Demons masquerading

                       Culture

 

Tasering the body you’re

Hoping to save...

 

Lend that wit, Sociology. That

Wit festering in memory-bank’s

                       Zoo... just

 

Take yourselves to bed; don’t

Question what I’m about to do

                       With your tools:

 

By morning you’ll inherit

The labours you crave.

 

 

 

INCURSION      

 

Only the most fiery

Of our poets

Are prepared

To burn

Their

Most chosen

Scraps:

 

This of course

Does not

Prevent

       Repetitive

Smoke chasing.

 

 

John Pursch- A Poem

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net, his work has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. Check out his experimental lit-rap video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Assuming Quicksand

Embarking adoration rips acetic eyeliner loot from second-can tobacconists before a pensive shiver ever ruptures, crepuscular in muted metal rain of wagon sickle hiding squeak.

Nods withstand explosive giggles, gaggles of frocked wolves, and messy old smiths, all flying on method dreams, passing casual clay and sunny glimpses of imbibed recycled calendars, traduced to marginalia by posed ergodic flippers.

Punchy cardigan pairs irrigate erotic tackles, plucking blockhouse bullion into phased legality’s codicil of sullied keister casuistry, breaded to alpine consanguinity by a Merovingian quadrant’s hortatory usurpation.

Jocks morph twice, rowing through floating thighs, christening the shapely seagoing gulls with lungs of needy illusionists.

Melodious weeds throw secondary towlines in estranged attempted basket-chaser freebie whist, carping at neural streets of vortices, equivocation becalmed by sonar.

Finally, theta ran into homey guardians, cordoning coughed talons, fusing anisotropic ideas within another pout, assuming quicksand.

Nancy May- Three Alien Haiku

headline news

an alien found dead

at the crash site

hearing the news

of the alien autopsy

one heart, two lungs

alien space ship

floats amongst the clouds

planning a new route

Nancy May’s haiku can be found at Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Inclement Poetry, Twisted Dreams Magazine, Vox Poetica, Eskimo Pie, Icebox, Dark Pens, Daily Love, Leaves of Ink, The Blue Hour Magazine, Kernels, Mused – The BellaOnline Literary Review, Danse Macabre – An online literary Magazine, High Coupe, A Handful of Stones, Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine, 50 Haikus, The Germ, Boston Literary Review, Be Happy Zone, Every Day Poets, Cattails, Ppigpenn, Creatrix Journal, M58, The Camel Saloon, Haikuary, the Plum Tree Tavern., Dead Snakes, The Poet Community and Poems and Poetry. She has reached The Heron’s Nest consideration stage twice and the Chrysanthemum consideration stage once. She is working on her first haiku collection.

Bruce Mundhenke- A Poem

The Wire

Come on out of your shell,
Take a walk upon the wire,
Watch that you don't fall,
Beware of the fire.

Look down at the abyss,
Fire down below,
Careful as you move along,
Take it nice and slow.

Fire down below you,
No way to ascend,
No way to know what is ahead,
When the wire has reached its end.

Don't think about the abyss,
Pay no attention to the fire,
Dig each righteous step you take,
As you travel on the wire.

No way to go backward,
Back into your shell,
The wire is now your home,
Your shell has served you well.

But the wire might lead to heaven,
Or the wire might lead to hell,
But it's your wire to travel,
Pity if you fell.

Robert Lavett Smith- A Poem

CONCERNING ANGELS

Although she is usually loath to be seen
so scandalously under-dressed, Beulah Rock
actually owns—stashed in the back of a drawer
somewhere—a prodigious yellow tee shirt
bearing the slogan I Believe in Angels
in bold blue letters as vivid as a summer sky.
A gift from Myrtle several birthdays ago,
it’s aired out once a year, at the annual picnic.

Some insist these celestial messengers are merely
symbolic, but she and the Reverend know better:
Many’s the time, at dusk when the diminished light
transforms fields and trees to a brief, dusty gold,
she’s sure she’s heard them softly singing,
voices concealed behind the rustling leaves
or in the patient refrain of the nearby river.

A reassurance, perhaps a benediction,
the words are strange, and vanish instantly,
like fragments of a conversation overheard
and then forgotten an instant before sleep.



Raised in New Jersey, Robert Lavett Smith has lived since 1987 in San Francisco, where for the past sixteen years he has worked as a Special Education Paraprofessional. He has studied with Charles Simic and the late Galway Kinnell. He is the author of several chapbooks and three full-length poetry collections, the most recent of which is The Widower Considers Candles (Full Court Press, 2014). He has recently been working on an new collection of sonnets—his second foray into the form—which is entitled Sturgeon Moon, and which will hopefully be published by Full Court Press sometime this year.

Sudeep Adhikari- Two Poems

The City of Men

The ravens gang up

on the lone tree

in my neighborhood

house of sticks and ether

besides the towering

jungle of silicates;

gloss of stupor double-binds

 the schizophrenia

of Gods' city.

 A pocketful of plate-tectonics,

a few quantums of love and hate,

a sleep-walking inertia

living the dreams

of ancient mummies;

let the gods sleep

 in their UFO drones. 

There are no doors to heaven

there are no truths

 to seek

are you there, my friend?

are you awake?


First appeared in "Novelmasters"

Multiplicity Nothingness

 

Glitch and gravity, both
bend the space
time-warp my already
whacked-out reflexes
I make the Mobius strip

and a couple of more paradoxes

out of my psyche;

God must be a geometer
as Kepler has thought once.

a sonic excess of noise
or the rhizomatic fuzz
inside the root of a pepal tree;

life oozes out of
every impossibilities

in a path

nor straight, neither curvilinear
fractal, probably.

 

Have you ever tried

to make nothingness

deep-dream in Google?

to get countless virtual raves,

multiverses, cat-eyes

for the laser-light
and few psychedelic

shinto temples.

 

matter and mind

weave an irreducible

 psychoid whole
related and plural

 undivided, yet many

The Tao of psychophysics.

 

All my life, I haunted

for the single truth
and ended up finding

many whores,
some sleepless rivers that flow
straight from a beer-factory,

few deathless trees that refuse

not to dance for a second

and some coked-out gods

who like to party

wearing a blood-soaked skull
for a cap.

 

I am not a sell-out
but I find no difference either.

 First appeared in "Zombie Logic Review"

Sunil Sharma- A Poem

Gorgon!

You are a strange creature, O, Gorgon!

Snakes braid your head, unheard so far!

Your gaze turns the viewed into stone.

You, of dreadful visage and poisonous locks.

Being immortal, you do not dread the Hades, like us

Because---

You are the epitome of death,

The terrible figure, a minor deity;

Not only the ancient Greeks but

Rest of the humanity has been in thrall of you and your other sisters.

Fanged teeth, eyes popping out of sockets and protruding tongue pictured

On the walls in Athens frightened others with evil hearts and protected

Residents from harm or malevolent eyes;

Your mythic being sprang up from fear and continue to dominate the creative imagination.

At the same time, you got great powers:

Blood taken from your right side can heal,

While from the left flank, if administered,

Can prove fatal!

Same person, contrasting sides,

Dualism of sweetness and poison

Contained within!

Creativity and destruction; life and death

You are the eternal source for both.

Femininity---dreaded and revered

Goddess and demon;

Combining animal and human sides in an odd body.

Gorgon, the serpent-woman, a hybrid of terrible aspects---

You symbolise patriarchy’s deepest fears and anxieties

Snake venom,

Deadly stare,

And the capacity to turn the spectator into an object,

What deadly combo inscribed in a woman's loving heart!

Although advanced, the world deifies the ugly and markets

Such strange depictions of an imagined dark figure, for the horror industry.

How misunderstood Gorgon, you continue to be, in our age!

Jennifer Lagier- A Photo

                                           "X marks the spot"

Ken Allan Dronsfield- Three Poems

Soup's On

In the grainy, dark hues
of a late spring twilight
a stillish peace so true,
you can hear a falling star.

As I walk the lonely lane,
full of rage and red disdain
Swordless rebellions can be
a very good thing indeed.

As gold shooting stars glide
across the breadth of sky.
I raise a glass to the creator,
whose mind put it all together.

Albeit but an insignificant speck
of atoms shooting through and
the wilding universal expanse,
a primordial soup served daily.



Committed, Rev 2

I laughed in their faces
as I committed to flight
within the dimmed night
of a vast swirling haze
sprinkled with delights.
Awaken a spirited grin
from a darkling gaze;
a chalice of warm gin
and unicorns danced.
We all recited a ditty,
"Race your dragonfly;
Grasp a shooting star;
Whisper to the Moon;
Dance with the Fairy."
Your Devil warms up
on the Summer's grill.
I forgot the bugle call
whilst dipping my quill
as I committed to flight;
a soulless zombied bite,
in the eve of a raucous,
contemptuous icy night.



Lingeringly Yours

An evening of fire, brimstone and desire;
walking with a torch to the Pulpit of Dark.
Book in hand, followers unite and stand;
preaching torrents by the burning sparks.

Mumbling to the Moon; a diabolical belief;
the devil reaches out to devour the devout.
Breathe into a cauldron, exhale in shadows;
crucible burns long gnarly twisted fingers.

Raise high to your deity; sky or far below.
A dark spirit rises, a tempted Watcher lingers
in an anointed dance of homicidal tendency,
lost within ethereal dreams of moon flowers.

Pity a bluish pig dancing in a velveteen sky;
praise the virtuous ones of a secreted Piety.
My skin is ice as the clock strikes midnight,
Now racing away lingeringly yours, gratified.



Bio: Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet, Author and Digital Artist originally from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He enjoys the outdoors, playing guitar and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. He is the Co-Editor of the new Poetry Anthology titled, "Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze" available at Amazon.com. His published work can be found in Journals, Magazines and Blogs throughout the Web including: Indiana Voice Journal, Belle Reve Journal, Peeking Cat Magazine, Dead Snakes, Bewildering Stories and many others.

Stefanie Bennett- Two Poems

Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry, a novel, & a libretto.

Her poems have appeared in Carcinogenic Poetry, VerseWrights, The Provo

Canyon Review, Shot Glass Journal, Plum Tree Tavern, High Coupe & others.

Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Qld.,

Australia. Stefanie’s latest poetry title ‘The Vanishing’ was published by

Walleah Press & is available from Walleah, Amazon & most bookshops.

 

 

 

I HEARD A WOMAN WEEPING      

 

I heard a woman weeping down

At the market place.

                                With emphasis:

 

I followed. I saw the woman weeping

Among the cabbages and spring-beans.

How relevant she is to history

 

I don’t know. She wore black [that much

I’ll record]: what’s more, when I left

They – the shoppers and stewards

 

Were stoning her with their eyes

At 8.42 a.m.  Easter Saturday with

An odd God and his mannerisms

                                    On their side...

 

 

 

TRICKSTER        

 

I would like to remind

My dissenters

That often

The wrong key

In a worn

Lock

Will bring

The house

 

... Down.

 

 

Richard Schnap- A Poem

BEDTIME STORY

There once was a bird
Crippled since birth
That had no wings
To bring flight

That could only watch
Others ascend
While it sadly dreamed
Of the sky

But then one night
It gazed at the stars
And sent up a
Silent prayer

To be answered when
The hand of a wind
Lifted it into
The heavens

Stefanie Bennett- A Poem

Stefanie Bennett has published several volumes of poetry and worked with

Arts Action for Peace. Her poems appear in High Coupe, Mad Swirl, Shot

Glass Journal, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Dead Snakes, The Provo Canyon

Review and others. Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee]

she was born in Queensland, Australia. Stefanie’s latest poetry title (2015)

“The Vanishing” was published by Walleah Press and is available from

Walleah, Amazon, Fishpond Books etc.

 

 

 

VORTICISM        

 

It is only a mad bull bellowing

At the ‘city gate’. As

Consistent as Spring -

The visitation has

Doubled the tourist trade.

 

What to make of it... this

Mad bull? And

Why does he

Choose

The City Gate?

 

Perhaps it is a forewarning

Of bastardry to come – or

A lament

Of those

Now passed...

 

The hair stands up along

My spine. Sonorously

His hooves thump out

The rhythm:

 

       Yes! No!

       Yes! No!

 

 

Denny E. Marshall- A Drawing

                                         "Medium Green Men"

Bio
Denny E. Marshall has a website called www.dennymarshall.com

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Venus Fly Traps

Remember that original Star Trek episode

where the Enterprise has rescued a tribe

of inter-stellar hippies. Not sure where

they came from, or what the thinking was

behind this truly insipid idea, or what

made someone think it would be a good plan

to transport these folks to some Eden place,

being hawked by the incredibly obnoxious

charismatic leader.  When the hippie tribe got

to their destination it was supposed to be all

peace, love, and fornication, the latter being

what Kirk was all about, so off they go

searching for the planet. Maybe there were Di-lithium

crystals involved, there always were, somehow.

(and what were Di-lithium crystals anyway?)

It must have been the last season when everyone

knew the series was going to be cancelled:

scripts and idea were getting pretty thin

(remember “Trouble with Tribbles”?) Let’s face it,

there was just so many times Spock could raise

that eyebrow and look skeptical and he was clearly

straining facial muscles during some of those episodes.

What was absolutely clear was: Mr. Roddenberry’s

opinion of the youth culture and social upheavals

of the 60’s, which was neither here nor there,

really, and ultimately, maybe he was right. 

Naturally, when the hippies find their planet

and everyone is beamed down, it doesn’t

take but a minute to find out that Eden is

actually a snake pit.  First an apple poisons the

eater, one bite is all it takes, then the inviting,

sparkling stream, turns out to be acidic, burning

all who touch it, and all that lush vegetation conceals

huge Venus Fly traps, and, maybe, worst of all,

there are no electrical outlets to plug in all their

musical instruments for impromptu Woodstock

Music Festivals. Everyone is complete bummed

and then they die, just like in real life.

                        Robots

Back in the golden age of science fiction as put

(Not Asimov, I Robot….) forth by the World’s Fairs

in 1964 /65, when we were supposed  to be embarking

into an age of great new labor saving devices  and fantastic                                                                        

technology. And look what we got: Computers.

Still, back then, Dow Chemical could proclaim,

with a straight face, that this was a time of, “Better living

through chemistry.” Actually it was a boon

time for the making of napalm, but we’re not

supposed to remember that. Hey, we would believe

just about anything.  How else can you explain

the popularity of such TV shows as: The Jetsons

and, the Godawful, Lost in Space, featuring the robot

with no name. It is not to difficult to connect the robot

with exact contemporary:  the Man with No Name,

Clint Eastwood trilogy. You‘d think Robot with No Name,

should have been called Robbie, right? “You know nothing,

Will Robinson.” might be appropriate dialogue here,

followed by, “Danger, Danger, Danger” (always repeated three                                                      

times) which happened something like every five minutes in 

each episode due to that evil twerp Dr Smith.

Oh, that Dr. Smith, words cannot describe how much

we loathed him. But we loved that Robot, despite his

being, laughably simple, sort of like Lassie in tin foil, two

legs instead of four, and pincers he could use to pick stuff up

with. Otherwise, well, kids in high school these days build

more interesting robots that do ten times as much as that

state of the Art piece of rubber and tin. Plus he had no

personality like say, R2 D2. Now, It is almost impossible to                                                            

believe that “Lost in Space” and “2001 A Space Odyssey”

are exact contemporaries. Hal or The Robot with No Name,

which would you prefer  on an intellectual scale of 1 to 10?

It boggles the mind  that this series has been remade as a movie                                                      

and again as a  series and that there is a rumor of yet another

series in production.  And another  movie. Are we really that                                                          

stupid? We must be.  After all, we’re all on board with cameras                                                      

everywhere, as a good thing, and instead of living in the age of                                                      

Marx and Coca Cola, as Godard asserted was what the 60’s

were all about, we are living in the age of Facebook,

NSA constant surveillance, and marketing profiles that make

us into personalized ad targets rather than human beings.

And what’s crazier yet, we willingly give up vital information

without even being asked. Orwell was right but he was

off by a few years.

            Time Machines

Begin and end with H.G. Wells, though most

people these days only know the novel through

that cheesy movie made way back in the 60’s.

There is one aspect of that movie that cannot be

denied: it set the low bar standard for devices. 

That particular machine looked like one of those

take your picture machines that used to be everywhere

before everyone had a cell phone with a camera, sans

the curtain.  Given what selfies have become, it makes

one long for those machines, but that’s another story. 

The hero of the movie, Rod Taylor, didn’t have much

to work with, but he did keep finding himself propelled

through a blurry time warps into the past where he had

many, so-called adventures.  Still, the machine he had

at his disposal wasn’t nearly as flimsy as the cardboard

control room Flash Gordon had! Between that, and

the sad excuses for ray guns old Flash had, it’s a wonder

Buster Crabbe could keep a straight face while working

on the set. And those early state of the art TV

monitors.  Brings you back. Makes you think of those

early K-Pro Computers with their double sided,

double density floppy disks, post card seized monitors,

incredibly hard-on-the-eyes green lettering, and

that heart beat cursor that could give an epileptic

actual fits. But it had like 400 something k memory

and easy to remember commands that make you long

for the good old days every time a new version of

Windows is released. Still, the Time Machine movie

wasn’t nearly as bad as the sleazy, maybe even,

daft “Island of Doctor Moreau” movie with Marlon Brando

clearly under the influence of, well, something.

And then there was “Slaughterhouse Five”  which shows

the perils of mucking about in time could bring:

you could end up in a disaster film with every aging,

has been star on the decline, or worse, a young

Joan Collins.  Better to imagine an area where Wells,

Conrad, Henry James and Stephen Crane were virtual

neighbors.  What they could have done if they had

worked together. What Crane might have done of he

lived another ten years to the ripe old age of say, 40.