Skipping sounds

Thrown stones at glass ponds

Reflecting cracks or ripples,

though heard, no echo…

Painting By Józef Chełmoński, Pond in Radziejowice, (1898) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Pandora's Jukebox

Unlimited Skips,

offered Pandora’s jukebox,

my father would cringe at the threat

to his precious vinyl.

Alas, the Narrative has changed.

All is story without plot, idle fancies

and frankly, too many flat Stanley’s.

The fear of the Singularity

exceeds all ego. We are working on it.

It was being built with zeros and ones,

We made it already, collectively, our

demise of reality. 

Speculate non-fictive for a moment, 

we could and did, rewrite beginnings and endings, 

bringing us to this very event horizon, 

which dips down in sheer data weight

and plunges into a black hole 

by basic filtering. 

Not a platter disc, or with grooves going down

into a white dwarf rabbits den, 

Then again-Just play with it Sam.

Electric hat tricks, inside sleeves, 

static sings and scratches ears, 

signaling deftness, 

a rough hand and some callous-

manipulation of ideas.

As though alternate forms for information

without any human connection should not short 

out, being illegible. This also computes null

as Equality. Yes and No.

As with All things being equal,

the volume grew, 

we all screamed, hollowing out

room and grew all consuming, 

devouring these data shells up-time

until all transfers

are made complete

in clouds.

How high Unlimited Skips registers 

and subscribes me to this ad-free

subtractive totality, 

breaking records in cycles. 

Painting by Halfdan Egedius, 1896 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Rough drafts

Those screams are breathing
And if this is polishing
it is abrasive.






Artwork by Franciszek Żmurko c. 1896 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

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.