The Space Between

By Michael Tapia

The time has come,' the Walrus said,
To talk of many things:
Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —
Of cabbages — and kings —
And why the sea is boiling hot —
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Lewis Carroll

It is time to have a pleasant walk, a pleasant talk along the briny beach, to sweep the sand away and enjoy the sunny night. Let us leave our pleasant beds, put on our shiny shoes, explore what is different, what has changed. Perhaps we can get a latte along the way and by the fountain get a gelato.
Normally, when I put together a collection of poems, the first poem provides the title for the collection. This allows me to determine the structure of the collection. However, this time around I made an exception. I did not want to come out swinging a bat, but thought that maybe I could ease the conversation with a little levity. These are indeed serious times and it is difficult to be un-serious without being accused of not caring. Daily conflicts show us to be less humane than we would believe ourselves to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Tapia
• Release date: Apr 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224382484

Michael Tapia

Born and raised in San Antonio Texas. Retired from the USAF as a Russian Cryptologic Linguist. Had tours primarily in Germany, with six years in Berlin, Germany. Graduated from University of Maryland overseas division, B.A, A.A., Community College of Air Force, A.S.

Book preview

Introduction

The time has come,' the Walrus said,

To talk of many things:

Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —

Of cabbages — and kings —

And why the sea is boiling hot —

The Walrus and the Carpenter

Lewis Carroll

It is time to have a pleasant walk, a pleasant talk along the briny beach, to sweep the sand away and enjoy the sunny night. Let us leave our pleasant beds, put on our shiny shoes, explore what is different, what has changed. Perhaps we can get a latte along the way and by the fountain get a gelato.

Normally, when I put together a collection of poems, the first poem provides the title for the collection. This allows me to determine the structure of the collection. However, this time around I made an exception. I did not want to come out swinging a bat, but thought that maybe I could ease the conversation with a little levity. These are indeed serious times and it is difficult to be un-serious without being accused of not caring. Daily conflicts show us to be less humane than we would believe ourselves to be.

One controversy pertaining to literature, deals with the use of Artificial Intelligence(AI). Since we are just beginning to determine the guidelines on how to deal with AI, I would like to propose the following: an author should explicitly indicate whether AI was used to generate or assist in the production of the text. If AI is used then the extent of the use should be stated. I will be using the following caveat:

Artificial Intelligence (AI) was not used to generate

or assist in the production of this text.

I realize that this is not a legal requirement and has no enforcement mechanism, it is only an opportunity for an author to be honest with the reader. I realize that there is nothing preventing an author from taking AI generated text and altering it or copying it and claiming authorship, like a song that uses algorithms for success.

The time has come to speak to ourselves honestly, to be serious, to determine our path to the future.

Shall we be trotting home again?'

But answer came there none —

And this was scarcely odd, because

They'd eaten every one."

Figments of My Imagination

Even my imaginary friends

No longer come around,

They say I am not fun,

Forgotten how to laugh,

Always talking politics,

Or the corruption of the judicial system;

I have become too serious,

Angst driven,

But I can’t be the only one,

Last time Barney,

The alien, from Xor 10, with eight tentacles,

Eyes at the end of each tentacle,

Was sporting a new MAGA hat,

Talking about voter fraud and stolen elections,

Every time he played a bad card,

He claimed immunity,

That the rules do not apply,

Or at least that’s what I thought he said,

He can be hard to understand

When he gets excited

Since his mouth is around his stomach

And his words have a gurgling, slurring sound;

Terence, the bird looking dude

With flipper limbs

Was talking about moving to Idaho

For the coming civil war,

To a compound with fortified bunkers

Rated to withstand a nuclear blast,

With an armory that rivals the military,

We drank our beer and ate the same stale chips,

French Onion and Guacamole dips,

Ordered pizzas that were cold,

Watched the football game in silence,

Except to say the Cowboys will never

Win the Superbowl again,

I