by Bob Perelman

Once a nimble nanny goat
ate all the shoots

of a vine
but still the vine

spoke back,
Nibble,

detestable beast,
nibble as close

as your fat teeth
can reach.

My stem
is intact

and will make
new leaves, fruit, and more

than enough wine
to baste you nicely

when you are sacrificed.

[from the Greek Anthology, Leonidas of Tarentum]

by Bob Perelman

Every word’s a poem,
but, full disclosure,

whenever I hear
“always”

bang! another hit
to my faith

in the infallibility
of language. I know

it’s not savvy
to take a dislike

to any particular word,
which, after all,

has almost no say
in what it’s

being made to do.
8 billion experts

and working mics
so few and far between.

But always is not
that good a hill

to die on.
Maybe better

to just bring it out
for holiday inspection

and then put it back
with a strengthened sense

of how fragile sequence is.

by Bob Perelman

The big storm that’s blowing in
is screwing with reception

to the point where
we can’t get any hold

on what’s happening
without clicking through

seas of spam where
no password is secure

and there’s nothing to believe
but our lying eyes.

by Margaret Randall

She closes her eyes and listens
to the wind while another
self–proclaimed Luddite
reads a book, not virtual but real
with its feel of paper
and faint scent of printer’s ink
on every page.

These youngsters in Brooklyn
meet once a week
at Grand Army Plaza, a park
with trees, fresh air
and distant city sounds
reminding them the world
exists in real time.

They reject the social media vortex
pulling their generation
into a void where all is now,
instantaneous gratification
with no obligation to think
beyond an easy choice
of emoticons.

They say they are rediscovering
life as it was before a storm
with hundred–mile–an–hour winds
swept their minds clean
of imagination, touch,
and the privilege
of looking at one another.