Ramblings from Ken Owen
as a butterfly of purple and gold
passed overhead to enjoy the performance
and when the dance was done
a crowd of leaves scattered on the wind
but the dancing leaf stayed
to honor Frank Robinson IV
on his transformation
into a butterfly of purple and gold
on this blustery day
You can take the pulse of a town
at the local thrift store
by examining the shoppers and goods
and how much the place smells
like grandma’s basement.
You can take the blood pressure of a town
by counting the number
of rock and roll band stickers
you find on the back of stop signs
and assessing how long they’ve been there.
You can estimate the life expectancy of a town
by counting the number
of empty store fronts on Main Street
and asking the concerned locals
“Well, is she a fighter?”
Ken Owen
Van Niddy Press
1970
was 54 years ago
War was global and endless
politicians were crooks even when
they said they weren’t and we shook
our heads at the nightly news and knew
something wasn’t right with the stories they
were telling and when we realized truth had been
taken off the menu long ago and would not be
served again with our TV dinners while in our
favorite chair and that the change we needed
would require people to shout louder than
those who made quiet deals behind the
scenes people rallied and marched
and partied their way through
the turmoil until they
made things
right
1970
was 54 years ago
yet we live with daily reminders
that progress won on battlegrounds
long since quiet will always require
vigilant defending against
challenges by those who
would turn our
gains into
losses
Ken Owen June 2024
Van Niddy Press
you were getting on a bus
leaving town
I followed under your window
as it slowly started to leave
and reached up to touch
your hand one last time
the last thing I saw was a stranger
lighting your cigarette
Ken Owen May 2024
Van Niddy Press
It seems
she remembers
everything.
Me
not so much.
I am not sure
when I began
to look right at the movie actors
and hear the bell of memory
ringing off in the distance
just far enough away
to make the sound of their name
undecipherable
(It was Eli Wallach
and she knew it instantly.)
My memory now operates independently
judging the importance of names and events
regardless of my efforts
but there have been moments
when I knew immediately
I had witnessed the unforgettable
like when I told my father
that she was sick
his very last words to me were
“Well, tell her I’m thinking about her.”
I am fairly certain
I’ll remember that
forever.
Ken Owen March 2023
Van Niddy Press
* I *
Just the other day
while trying to complete
a transaction on the Internet
I had to prove that
I was not a robot
to a robot
which seemed to me like an electronic version
of self-discrimination, a sort of
‘You may proceed…as long as you are not like me’
but the more I thought about it
who better to systematically authenticate our humanity
than a pre-programmed non-human
who already knows the answer
to which pictures contain traffic lights
and can decipher squiggly bits of overlayed alphabet with ease.
I came to the conclusion that
robots checking for robots seemed fine
as long as the robots didn't start
organizing under a common flag
for some clandestine
non-inclusive purpose.
* II *
After successfully passing
the ‘I am not a robot’ test
I began a conversation with a different robot
who was extremely polite and spoke grammatically correct English
and gave me the feeling its Spanish would have been impeccable
had I chosen numero dos.
I could almost sense the robot bowing ever so slightly
as it respectfully introduced itself
and asked me how my day was going.
Thinking I might entertain myself by
testing the limits of the programmed BOT lexicon,
I replied, “Groovy.”
“Fantastic!”, it responded.
I was impressed
but now felling
a bit uneasy.
Within a few minutes of our conversation
I found myself crafting my questions and answers
so as to be more easily understood by the robot
which meant that, without prior instruction
I was quickly teaching myself to become fluent
in speaking Conversational BOT 101
(or was the robot teaching me?)
I then realized our conversation had placed me
inside an endless loop of a question and answer game
that kept returning me back to the same starting point
nowhere closer to resolving my problem
and the only option to escape was to scream
“Speak to a Representative!!!”
* III *
As penalty for giving up
on my conversation with the robot
I was placed on hold for 37 minutes
and every 60 seconds or so I was reminded that
although my call was very important
the robots handling the call que had received explicit instructions
to route the calls in the order in which they were received
proving that the robots had been given lessons in
the decorum of “first come, first served”
but in appreciation for my patience
during my expected wait time of 37 minutes
the computer tried to soften my on hold experience
by playing an antique tune in a style once referred to as ‘elevator music’
that sounded as if it were being played underwater
on a 8-track tape player that had been tossed in the ocean in 1974.
* IV *
And so began
my afternoon dream parade
of random thoughts
about the person who created
this loop of meritless melodies in 1974
and how proud they would be
if they found their music
still being played 50 years later
by robots sophisticated enough
to administer anti-robot tests
with traffic lights and road signs
and squiggly bits of overlayed alphabet
and I wondered what type of music
our robots will play when we finally ask our
artificially infused but-oh-so-intelligent computers
to create new music designed to soothe a pre-certified human
that must wait their turn for 37 minutes
to speak to another human.
-inspired by and dedicated to Rob McCloskey
