No point. No point at the end.
How do you know you are there-
Where?
At the end, I don’t.
(In)³-8
And is it Close or Close? Close.
As meta for unraveling also ravels.
Breathe. I forgot what inspired me.
If used, it still possesses zero dimensions:
Does it matter if there
Or here, or Not? I
appreciate the white
Space(s) left
by you...
As in, moving targets that spin
seem still, hazy-but fuzzy was her favorite.
How do you know when it is done,
Or the piece is a settled preposition?
Just to suppose, juxtapose those positions,
what if feathers deny making a Pound
is the Emperor Penguin still Dressed (Up)?
They were all thought experiments. I thought they were poems.
A poet cannot leave re-normalization-alone.
I came pre-traumatized, I sat subserviently
and listened for the equi-valence on this side,
punctuated by give and take.
The man said most don't know. As a physicist, he fishes.
His curiosity overflowing banks and boxed cats
and asks the layman to believe in nothing proven safe for
consumption.
The stomach still drops in
conceptual elevators
labeled Science and Art
"Going
Down"
(rabbit holes).
This poem was composed of notes I took while at an event hosted by the Arthur C. Clark Center for Imagination featuring Rae Armantrout and her condensed chapbook titled "Entanglements" (pub.d by Wesleyan) on April 13th, 2017 (also her birthday).
