10 Dimension all your variables, figure out their sides.
20 Remark, perhaps, on how data twirls across divides.
30 Print a hello world, as if the world could not read cursive;
40 Go to thirty, looped but still printed, not recursive.
50 For once you have some code that doesn’t do much else,
60 Next you’ll want to make it special, of yourself.
70 Data will be read, perhaps, or Fibonacci spun,
80 While you tally figures until the job is done.
90 Poke a byte, peek a bit, nybble ‘til you’re through,
100 End with too few memories, dimensions still unused.
Writing
Stuff that I have written.
The Sunday Poem: Change of Dreams
(Visited 5894 times)We have no more Sargasso Sea:
We’ve lost the tales from Argosy,
Of giant jewfish swallowing divers
And ghost ship press gangs snaring live ones.
Continue reading »
The Sunday Doggerel: Powerpoint
(Visited 5548 times)I have a title, given me by others.
I have a topic, sort of bothersome.
When prepping speeches, it is best
To have a solid notion of the rest.
The Sunday Poem: The Dragons and Me
(Visited 6012 times)The dragons and me, well, we used to argue.
We had these fantastically frightening rows.
I tell you this to explain, not alarm you.
They wore fedoras and chomped old cigars,
And liked wearing ponchos on great horny toes.
But really, they loved most going too far.
Continue reading »
The Sunday Poem: Herbie Hancock on a Headache
(Visited 5947 times)I had a headache today. Fell asleep multiple times. My son’s got a fever too, has had for a few days. Blah. I’m ready for illness to stop going ’round. Anyway, caught intermittent pieces of a documentary on the making of Herbie Hancock’s Possibilities CD. And the experience of drowsing off the music while headachy got me this:
Herbie Hancock on a Headache
The thundundering of the duhduhdurums,
The lashing of the cymbal crasharashing.
Piano diddledaddle flatting fives and nattering,
The bass boom thrumming thump thrump on.
Play the drum head, pound that skin,
Send jolts of timbre dazzle down my spine.
Blow my mind, bounce the skull, a countercoup,
Ivories xylophoning tickles in a line.
But the music, music, music ocean sloshing close,
Washing-whipping, whirl-a-looping, a vortex
Vast and varied with snatches of a song;
In fugue I fade before too long, the scribbled charts
Rocking me to sleep, eleventh for a pillow,
The tang and ride a blanket muffling me to dark.