Mercury’s Handmaid

In the second law of thermodynamics;

The poem as a made-thing is the

“Spontaneous emergence of self-organization”.

Besides this, in Science,

“The word magic means order”

So the symbol for Nothing

became shaped like the mouth in meditation,

in the midst of making more space

for Observation.

The numeral for the Universe,

One world, 1, as in Everything

Man-o-theistic made more calculating

layers encoded in an algorithm

to become binary bipeds seeking symbiosis,

or the meaning of Miracle. Walk the Talk.

Ecstasy is merely our abandonment

of a timeline.

Silence sought chaos,

letting letters separate from self in sound.

The tonality resonated

making all things

moving disappear

with (1) velocity (0)

without (0) reason (1).

We try to transcend our current state

if only for a half-life

chemical moment. Methodically mad.

there were bells to be rung,

the sentence was both a rule

and regret. 

Painting by Jules Lefebvre [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Atmosphere (with a teenager)

The light from her eyes had grown in darkness.

Her pupils emulating black holes...

I wanted to lighten her

dark mood,

so I showed her a picture from far away,

the moon-detailed.

Why is it so dark out there? She sees Nothing.

Why is space so dark? She gazed at the photo

a moment more.

Reflecting a moment-

Dark Matter, I retorted.

As opposed to Light Matter?

Yes, but not light enough

to see the difference,

I replied.

But this space in here is light.

You're right. Energy.

Energy? All of it, I nodded, Electricity.

She then sighed laboriously,

I heard the dark part is expanding?

Likely. Nobody hears it

happen. No body looks.

I can feel it, I think.

It can come in waves-

like gravity. That's heavy, she snorted sarcastically.

Actually, it is weak,

I added for weight.

Mind over matter,

she quipped back.

If you don't mind-

it doesn't matter,

I dismissed.

I guess I should lighten up, let it float,

she finally smiled

and lit up the room, once again, happily

ever after and growing.

Image of painting by José Ferraz de Almeida Júnior [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Quant(h)um

How can one

be so close yet so  ----      far

at the same time

while still

believing they are precisely

where they should be?

Have you ever

tried to muffle light

with your body or soles?

Will it matter that what you Will

inevitably choose

Will come to pass as choice?

Would it have been different

if we could still change

our mind?

What if at most fear

(or what if atmosphere)

was all that held us in and kept us

in our quagmired violence by blood-curdling,

perpetual blue light

-not saying-never-mind?

It is a thin line

without direction

Where would you go?

Image credit By Ken Billington (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Photographic Memory

There was evidence.

Documents that document what was evident then,

for now.

The documents were both rare

and fragile.

Some small rectangles, windows of film

frothing with substance, like acids and bases

jaundiced or molded and shriveled.

At times only the negatives

remained. No resemblance.

It is hard to see the value of any one.

when every person is packing clouds

with images.
Transitive types still holographic despite

imaginary inks and multiversions,

a.k.a. avatars, space holders, facetime-streaming

proof-until Poof!

What memory?

There is no evidence.

We were not there. 

Image of Martin Shaw, 1929 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Pheeling the Skein

Follow the strings and twisted wires,

everything and more than all that is there

is moving About;

spinning, buzzing, jumping, vibrating, rocking,

and it comforts most

anxious beasts.

Calm could come later.

Tied to chords that carry notes containing

amateur truths

capable of travel through walls and cells.

Tangles always teach by example.

How easy it is.

Free will- not worth the long lines.

Holding breath was a frugal way of sadness.

We make promises to indulge

at the ends, 
we find the nots are terminal.




Painting By Kuroda Seiki (1866-1924) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A jacket is a cover

When my mother told me
about the day I was born,
she said, besides being too big
and born late,
it was a dark a stormy day,
grey, wet, cold and nasty, and
dreadful as ever for February-

And since I was there but did not see,
I trust this is the truth
she saw
with me.
Although, due
to my mother
never reading, she wouldn't have known,
it was a great day
to start a new book.



Painting by Mary Cassatt, 'Sleepy Baby' c. 1910 in Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Grass blades and power tools

Stood up,
freed our hands
to tool, implement and imply
utility.

Thus, sentenced within predicates
held under knuckled thought,
contortionist
fingers fist in refusal to feel,
with open palms, red
and pointed tactile tips,
being blue,
leads us through rooms, people,
towns, and nightmares,
fumbling for switches

to turn in from out, left from right,
divide man from beast, past from present,
and fulfill this suspicion to see
the last site from its first sound-

With time on our hands
seconds passed.
While waiting,
we outpaced ourselves,
only to find the finish line
lying down.

The race was over
before the dog slithered under
any fence, and the walls caved in.

Too late

to place

bets.




Artwork by Walter Crane, 1909 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. an illustration for the poem The World's Age' by Charles Kingsley and the lines 'Still the race of Hero-spirits/ Pass the lamp from hand to hand;/ Age from age the Words inherits-/ 'Wife, and Child, and Fatherland.