Showing posts with label parables of famous economists. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parables of famous economists. Show all posts

Friday, December 2, 2011

Three Recent Poems

A little catching up:

Parables of Famous Economists - #39 in the occasional series

Seventeen Volatility Varietals

”I think volatility is here to stay. This might be the new normal.” – Sanjay Ramchander

1. Tendency to vaporize. Eleven months held close to flame, pup tents stripped of fire retardant, the chants that resonate from urban canyon walls, gone to vapor trails every one, o when will they ever learn, o when will they

2. Relative vapor pressures in a liquid mixture. EnCana’s salaried guinea pig testing the cement fracking chamber for explosive levels of three benzene derivatives, but they never tell you that the liquid must be preceded by the horizontal 50-caliber shot that helps the pressurized solvents find their way home. The sickly sweet aroma clinging to your nostril hairs may be the last remembered smell, or just another among the half-dozen drill pads of the day.

3. Compounds from a planet’s crust, all characterized by low boiling points. That last hydro shot did little more than remove a layer. The rest of us boiled over long ago, leaving dried beans in the bottom of a scorched saucepan. Add water, compress crust, rinse and repeat, call it Cairo.

4. Organic compounds evaporating at room temperature, usually regulated by governments. It didn’t turn out so well in this year of strangeness and charm, now did it? In the absence of regulatory authority, the vaporization follows global annealing.

5. Volatile anesthetics. As if that was an option. The Spectacle expresses nothing more than its desire to sleep.

6. The abuse of household inhalants containing volatile compounds. The step from Pam cooking spray to toluene might be considered a gateway drug, though this gate swings both ways.

7. Oil derived from plants with aromatic compounds and flavoring. A year massaged in cloves and rose hips and patchouli, then engulfed in flames.

8. In winemaking, a term to indicate an unacceptably high level of acid. The pinot noir left blistering, split canker sores at the Quito sidewalk café, apply the Espiritu de Ecuador balm, again, again, again, the healing process cannot dissipate the image of marching laborers with duct tape wrapped earlobe to earlobe.

9. Variables capable of being changed by an external process. When the long-half-life radioisotopes on the chamber floor coat the tender planet, there are no externalities.

10. Memory that only lasts while the power is on. Which is flash, and which DDR3? What is flash, is flash unchanging law? We both have flash, is mine the same as yours?

11. A measure of the risk of a financial instrument. China apparently said no to the European Union instruments to rescue Greek and Italian debt, because the debt was tranched and re-bundled into debt obligations that looked exactly like the toxic mortgages of 2008. There are no new risk arbitrages under the sun. Nobel mathematicians have been hanging themselves as a result.

12. Compounds of magma that affect the strength of volcanoes on the brink. We’ve barely made it through the initial caldera bulge. Just you wait, ‘enry ‘iggins, just you wait.

13. Stochastic theories of probability. Shit, we’re past the nonlinear stochastic flip. The rest is sideshow. The rest is silence.

14. Pedersen Index measure of volatility in political party systems. Seen as all but irrelevant given the greater strength of volatile compounds mentioned above.

15. Video game manufacturer. You already failed the test with the sixth-level boss. Return to sender.

16. 2008 album by A Hero A Fake. Ironic given the denouement of the three years between.

17. 1988 Lime Spiders album. Second verse, same as the first. Contents need not be shaken further.

Loring Wirbel
Nov. 23, 2011
Copyright 2011 Loring Wirbel



When Feedback Squeals

Ode to third-stage chicken pox/shingles, the delayed reaction brat

One mustn’t blame the synapse,
any more than the frayed shoelace tip
felling the last-lap runner.
No fault can be assigned to weary muscles
or the tactile flood of carnival or party,
the festival of simply-is sensation.
If a perpetrator must be named,
blame the pox, the bloody pox.

Old hands learn to tag the cusp of faulty backpropagation,
while newbies know only the incessant sledgehammer,
the second-degree burn of perpetuity.

Sometimes a charley-horse is just a charley-horse,
but odd moments let the cumulonimbus pile higher, higher
in the outback west of Alice Springs.
At the first blue sprite, some strange resonance is reached,
a certain tinnitus of the neural network.

The limbs, the belly are Hendrix’s ‘Red House,’
Lou’s
Metal Machine Music,
a Merzbow sonnet.
And how does the body sense a neural chime?
As standing waves,
as tsunami,
as pounding on denuded shore,
until ebb tide sorts muscle to muscle,
touch to touch,
sound to sound,
leaving only an exhausted residual sparkle,
and the nagging uncertainty -
Is this the way the brain breaks, too?

Loring Wirbel
Nov. 26, 2011
Copyright 2011 Loring Wirbel


Smoke Detector Batteries

The nose of a husky at 2 a.m.
must always be trusted,
particularly when synchronized
with random chirp of smoke detector.
If puppies are not dyspeptic,
something is afoot.

Crystals of ice-fog deposit layers on each hyperdefined branch.
Coyotes straddle the ridge like a K2 climber, whispering
“Remember Karakoram. Remember 1980. The watchers have returned.”
The white beast might be lost amidst a subzero whiteout,
but for that whine in the back of the throat
matching the next lonely mating call of smoke detector.

This is not about a range-war romp under new moon.
This is not about cursive marks of tangerine piss.
She will sleep by the back door the rest of the night,
each shiver anticipating that for which we could not be warned.
I am sleepstepping on an uncertain ladder,
removing protective covering,
calculating half-life of Americium-241,
realizing that for this particular premonition,
there are no fresh batteries to be had.

Loring Wirbel
Dec. 2, 2011
Copyright 2011 Loring Wirbel








Friday, August 19, 2011

Catching Up, Round 1


Since the late 1970s, I've worked on a random series of poems called 'Parables of Famous Economists'. Pondered at one point publishing them as a series of Garbage Pail Kid-style trading cards. It's been a little while since a new parable emerged, but in early July, #38 suddenly appeared from nowhere. I have appended the poem itself with a brief history and geography of The Scapa Flow:


















The Scapa Flow

Parables of Famous Economists - #38 in the occasional series

”Complex systems that have artificially suppressed volatility tend to become extremely fragile, even while exhibiting no visible risks. In fact, they tend to be too calm and exhibit minimal variability as silent risks accumulate … Such environments eventually experience massive blowups, … ending up far worse than they were in their initial volatile state.”

-- Nassim Nicholas Taler, The Black Swan of Cairo

Becalmed in anti-horse latitudes
He paces aft deck,
confusing the frostbite of debt ceiling
with the bo’sun’s all clear,
and shivers at the deafening absence
of magpie song in Orkney pre-dawn.

Great-great grandfather’s flapper season
was punctuated by sparse hello’s in the Scapa Flow.
Only the littoral ships where invisibility was intended,
drifted in sweeping arcs around a barrier of Graemsay.

Now, the dissolution of polar ice
brings daily petrogreetings
from Archangelsk to Alert Bay,
and still the bridge is enveloped in a cone of antisound.

She tried to speak clearly amidst the Delphic columns,
explaining to him that land sharks in Athens,
salty flotilla dogs in Piraeus,
vibrated at a frequency accomplishing nothing,
save a generous gaseous escape of beer foam,
dissolving representatives of the European Central Bank,
who were waiting for their chance to whimper
“Even anarchists can be wrong half the time.”
He offered the oracle a backpropagation lesson,
her opiated heavy lids failing to register his insistence
that the imperceptible wake of ships within the Arctic Circle
generated the slow delta waves more likely to go critical
as flotilla becomes Flotta.
Perhaps they whispered to each other the same sweet nothings
in mutually unintelligible dialects.

Ship’s whistle resonates in tooth and testament alike.
Call to neither reveille nor seven-bell prayer,
but a fitting remembrance of a Von Reuter call to scuttle,
a June 21 hymn of sinking below a featureless Scottish horizon,
where even a storm-petrel is wrong half the time.

One dozen renegotiations of a national limit,
spanning months or years of indeterminate length.
It is calm.
Unaffected bond markets, Dow stuck at 12k.
It is calm.
Ship lists subtly to port.
It is calm.
Spray-spattered deck at 21 degrees
as list becomes coffin to be.
It is calm.
The trembling is laughter and laughter alone.
The economist to first identify the point of kinase cascade
goes down with the ship.
Yo ho.
It is calm.
Please notify my next of kin.
It is calm.
This wheel shall explode.
The surface of the Scapa Flow is always calm,
as he notes with no little irony
that admirals of the current era
must expand their definitions of scuttle.

Loring Wirbel
July 16, 2011
Copyright Loring Wirbel 2011

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scapa_Flow

Scapa Flow (Old Norse: Skalpaflói - "bay of the long isthmus" [1]) is a body of water in the Orkney Islands, Scotland, United Kingdom, sheltered by the islands of Mainland, Graemsay, Burray,[2] South Ronaldsay and Hoy. It is about 312 square kilometres (120 sq mi). It has a shallow sandy bottom not deeper than 60 metres (200 ft) and most of it about 30 metres (98 ft) deep, and is one of the great natural harbours/anchorages of the world, with sufficient space to hold a number of navies. Viking ships anchored in Scapa Flow more than 1000 years ago, but it is best known as the site of the United Kingdom's chief naval base during World War I and World War II. The base was closed in 1956.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scuttling_of_the_German_fleet_in_Scapa_Flow

The scuttling of the German fleet took place at the Royal Navy's base at Scapa Flow, in Scotland, after the end of the First World War. The High Seas Fleet had been interned there under the terms of the Armistice whilst negotiations took place over the fate of the ships. Fearing that all of the ships would be seized and divided amongst the allied powers, the German commander, Admiral Ludwig von Reuter, decided to scuttle the fleet.

The scuttling was carried out on 21 June 1919. Intervening British guard ships were able to beach a number of the ships, but 52 of the 74 interned vessels sank. Many of the wrecks were salvaged over the next few years and were towed away for scrapping. The few that remain are popular diving sites.




Monday, February 22, 2010

One Black Feather

For many years, I worked on a series of poems called Parables of Famous Economists - think Pokemon-style trading value with Garbage Pail Kids sensibilities. A few of the poems were published, but the trading cards stayed a dormant project, and the parables dwindled in frequency.

When The Economist magazine published a special report on financial risk Feb. 13, I was motivated to write a new parable because of the story of value-at-risk theorists pondering on the frequency of "black swans" - unusual events that were supposed to happen once a millenium - except that the experts at quant theory never anticipated events folding into each other like a feedback loop. The quote from the two economists involved in such theories seemed applicable to environmental theory, energy theory, any chaotic oscillatory loop that had moved into a past-equilibrium state of near-catastrophic breakdown. That, of course, is what happened to our financial system in 2008, and is what is happening to many human systems that are near or beyond tipping points. I'm surprised the black swan analogy has not been applied more generally.

Then I started to think about grains of sand and avalanches. And surfing beaches in Kauai. And blue bottles, the Pacific Ocean equivalent of the Portuguese man o' war jellyfish. And how blue bottles swim in swarms when they sting. And how, if black swans have moved from rarities to commonplace creatures, maybe they sting in flocks. Like a protein kinase cascade, tumbling toward a cancer. Except we're already there. Here's the latest parable:

Parables of Famous Economists - #37 in the occasional series

One Black Feather

(for Peter Bernstein and Till Guldimann)

“Financial markets are not only vulnerable to black swans, but have become the perfect breeding ground for them” – T. Guldimann

Ha’Ena crest bubbles on each breaking wave
Burst in the kinase cascades Judy calls frothy
Blue bottles call ‘tase-me-bro’
Or domino – either form of paralysis

In the beached fever dream I can only insist that
Swans never bred in salt water
Silly mistake,
Lagoon or tsunami, this breeding ground swells
To embrace debt swaps and ice melts and the
Single-nucleotide polymorphs
(you insisted had flown)
That sang in a chorus of tase-me-bro

The one grain of Ha’Ena sand
That became a cascade
Mistaken for blue bottle sting
Since they all swim in swarms
Stings cascading hurt
And the black swan so rare
It was only that fever dream suggesting a flock
No proof, a black feather
Palalia
Feedback storm