Recipe for Primordial Soup

Words

We know

Hold something

Greater than tangibility.

There is no weight, but we feel them

Waiting in us. It is mysterious how they

Manifest themselves as thought

Lines, directions, and energies by focus

And I have tried to gather these threads,

To tread lightly, lilting to myself trying to hear what Paulo Coelho

Whispered once, 'The universe conspires for you', for me,

Then Elliot interrupts and challenges these universal disturbances-i.e.

SILENCE! Shouts Cage with his plump lips, holding full notes In,

And Stein, and Stein, and Stein, and Stein evokes our inner Einstein-Aha! Pre-cisely-
The math of the matter, the matter of math, math matter, the matterless
mathless matter, massless matter, the antimatter-as a mass of totality, see-

Too literal to be unilaterally likable-repetitive is as are (un)retractable. Stet.

Do You-without question-understand the definition? Who knew-

Which one of many contradictory theories 

to listen-too much advice causes root entanglement 

and naturally, chaos unravela such intricate complexities, all

Gathered. Feel! Knots. Grasping for straws and strings 

to locate the (in)tangibility further up the line, at a beginning, 

where it went wrong, where A is for Adam was crossed out, gasp,

the people knelt, Adamant this evening without repast

famished for

an other.


Photo credit:  Archives, Argentina, children eating soup 1938 in [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Per: Fect Reader

Lucky

to have sparked your interest,

already, at first sight

I’d like to lift your chin,

letting my lines leach into your lips.

My fruit, my conception, bursting its peel-

Alas, I have known this thirst we share,

It was none but you, alone

more real to me, together

We both imbibed insatiably, yet emptiness 

abounds until whole words were filled 

in utterly

every open space drowned in white.

Open and sere,

I wish to saturate this dry dirt with

One of our tears

To make something you can use, of utility

To make more time

For thisness in these.

These twirled up murmurs were merely me,

reaching out with invisible waves

for your quiet, distant ear,

And just when I thought

The silence meant

I had nothing to say

To make any better-

You heard every word

Fulfilled

with this.

Painting by William McGregor Paxton (c. 1900) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Not needing Neruda

Tonight I can sleep because of what I wrote, out there and just right.

I may lie here and feel weightless for too few precious moments.

It is because of you, whom I submitted to, stripped down to my soul

To show utter naked truth,

And you did not flinch or cower but glowed at the unknown,

Making more for us both.

This reassures me, we will always have enough

To do- -between us- -You

being the first person who said,

It will be all right, and all ways was. 

By Rembrandt (1654) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Two gather a world

They were sloppy and all over the place

But you said they were neat and saw where they were going

Instead of seeing white as work to do,

You saw the space as everything

in a corner of infinite potential

You saw the all books pile up you cared not to read,

you knew there were poems being written you wouldn’t like,

but listened to all the summaries intently

as though these beamings held up the roof.

Needing you to say, I like this view, you did.

And on the Future we stood atop,

not under, Trust

and knew it to be seaworthy,

come a flood,

having sailed and proven so

in worse storms than before.

This is why they call ships She

sails catching wind, why the butterfly

has nothing better to do but change into more,

We can pitch caution

And roll on, we were on track ,

you said this time

let us be wreckless and lucky

like you little lady. 

Painting by Arnold Böcklin, Villa by the Sea (c. 1871-1874) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

In which way

The iron clouds pillar up-

appearing as smoke stacks

of weathered industry.

A white hot moon

dims in the distance,

cooling its crusty heel-

by degree-one feels

cool and aloof, like May.

The flowers will soon turn

their heavy heads toward the sky,

and the palm fronds will sail

and sway, catching wind waves-

still, for now, rising lightly...

When it warms up to-day

it May use more than greys

tinged with purple promises

that Summer burns

just over the horizon.

Yet, May bees, I've learned
aren't always knows.

Photo By kallerna (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Expansion

Moving forward, at the end of the day, and these clichés

were left to remind us what sounds about right,

in-sight-fully (don't look back).

As though we could help it, we were not made

this way, a head, not eating tails of our time.

Before you ask-did I know about this

I have said this before, a little bit of chaos

does so much more for creation, inflation

and more. There is (much) more,

After all, 'A few people laughed, a few people cried',

I hope you lived in an interesting time-

Most were silent and simply watched the wax melt

down the ink dark sky making white caps on mountains.

It is best to listen for the ring mascons make,

since echoes don't travel well without gravity’s hold.

Calling your attention to small matters like the moon

making our weight

neon light, a flashing Open sign.

By NASA/ESA/JHU/R.Sankrit & W.Blair [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 
"On October 9, 1604, sky watchers -- including astronomer Johannes Kepler, spotted a "new star" in the western sky, rivaling the brilliance of nearby planets. "Kepler's supernova" was the last exploding supernova seen in our Milky Way galaxy. Observers used only their eyes to study it, because the telescope had not yet been invented. Now, astronomers have utilized NASA's three Great Observatories to analyze the supernova remnant in infrared, optical and X-ray light."

Nightcrawlers

Moonlight dripped wax,

cooled from distance,

now hardened in the corner

of my little eye.

It burns a bit.

It is soft light when I blink...

How grease is easily spread,

superficially diluted in various

concoctions and reeks with a tinge

of petroleum, oh hum-

or pouring out the midnight oil.

I've never smelt a rat alive,

a spiders nest freshly woven, maybe

even minerals misting with moon dust.

The moon always watching her back,

a spy in the sky

she sees it all coming her way.

Meteor-light, star dust,

it was just us, quiet enough.

Painting by Edvard Munch, Moonlight (1893) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.