Sleep
We infect each other
with sleep.
Our lazy
spines and fingers twine.
My own face—
chewed leather by comparison—
inhales you:
dewy like skimmed butter.
The first
dream figure is
leading me
somewhere I don’t want to go.
Not that you mind:
so still besides me.
The Many Stages of a Black Hole [or the singularity is lame]
contains language from Andrew Hamilton at the University of Colorado
for Pomme Koch
The relativistic jet aroused me most.
Near and mid lenses conspired to refract
back to us an image of every experience.
What promise!
A struggle, a wound.
I see you, yes.
The event horizon
was the
old desire
to be known:
Bermuda with my man—
You guys don’t know, but my sister is a rape survivor—
Dog!
I did my part:
Dealt out copium to recent refugees
by explaining what a simp was.
We never solidified the math
for infinite density
before more bodies piled in
to take the superluminal trip.
And who could blame them?
Expansion requires heat after all.
Plus the infall
was so painless
we called it
theft.
(And, personally, I’m so fucking stupid, I was grateful to be reminded
the deconstructed blazer in my abandoned cart was back on sale.)
The tearing region was where
chunks truly started flying off.
Not small things like privacy either;
bigger ones like meaning.
Our compressed mass altered time:
the flick of a fingertip scroll now
occupied the length of the universe.
If I don’t instantly get what you think, c’mon man, what use are you anyway?
But…
the inner horizon…
was awe inspiring.
A burst of light, all history
infinitely speeded up,
atoms broke apart irradiated.
(No one tells you
how exhilarating that separation is.)
Turns out that all the way down ontology and advertisement blend:
Thoughtful? (job seeking)
Furious? (job seeking)
Terrified? (job seeking)
In love? (desirable and job seeking)
Even the old standbys, the visceral stuff, like murder or cum for instance,
hoped to build fanbases large enough to one day justify a book or product line.
The last remaining natural law
was never admitting
you didn’t know:
Growing up in Iowa demands I align with—
airbrush fail, pig—
Dear friends and family, our sweet girl has cancer again.
Whether we are Plancks star:
the tightest possible volume,
chunky like a speed bump;
or curved geodesics,
too close together to tell apart;
our mass is forever less than our nucleus.
The singularity
was a real let down.
Frankly.
God is a t-shirt store.
The Soap Opera Effect
anger
washes off
calcified
crunchy as a shrimp tail
could just've easily clipped
a toe.
fleshy water
interpolated with an extra frame
of something:
awareness
or
sadness perhaps
reminds of a specious
digital effect
on television:
the Soap Opera Effect.
a simple idea really
that
reality
is more believable
sped
up
a
little
bit—
O my
the clarity
it offers to the minor
tangle
of dark hair
floating
by the drain:
dark and ferrous like
iron ore shavings—
tomorrow
is papered by mantras
folded over and over
lift this flap:
the dialectic is the key to maturity
lift again:
all your healing is inside your own images.
but
once I’m dry
the
glut
takes me back to team dinners at
Cracker Barrel:
we’d add
every condiment on the table
to a Coke
then dare each other to drink.
Cat’s Cradle
1. to get started wrap the string around each wrist once
like a handcuff.
2. Spread your hands and the string
is now an infinity loop:
3. There should be a stitch from end to end.
4. Bring one finger inside to gather
a stitch and cross it.
5. This is the Cat’s Cradle.
6. To play: I’ll dip my hand
inside the pattern you hold,
7. we’ll share the string
briefly
8. then I’ll use my position to swing
the cuffs from your wrists to mine.
9. Your tension becomes mine.
10. We can keep passing it,
for years, forever, if you like.
11. Or
12. if you get bored—
think it’s lame—
13. get married or divorced or grief stricken—
broke, angry, unforgiving, impossibly rich—
14. you can walk away.
15. No big thing required.
16. Except I’ll keep the cradle open,
thinking the game unfinished.
17. Or
18. I won’t.
19. I’ll lay the string down,
straighten it
for other uses.
20. Like mending clothes
or binding herbs
21. and be relieved for it.
The Great Violence
We lob in plastic garlic,
tomato bombs, cerise like fireball gobstoppers,
bounce past hamburger buns
harder than hockey pucks
rattling next to impossibly small ears of corn.
When we get to the tunafish cans,
I remove the play-doh lid to reveal a space
perfect for storing treasures.
Since our game is more premonition than fantasy;
Since the fuzzy fear buzzing me is less fabulous
than when I prepare myself in daydreams
to fight a bear who got into our walk up,
will I wish when it comes—the Great Violence—
we’d made a side gig in baguettes?
A blockchain with an indisputable ledger
for water consumption?
Instead of pitching hot dogs to mallards,
should we have been stuffing it
beneath the mattresses like gold bullion?
Reburying underripe potatoes and stashing
mature orange carrots in the air conditioning vents?
When I crawl through topsoil
choking under four inches of dust,
gurgling open taps will harken our original sin.
Failing to sleep in punishing, stale heat
I’ll ask: how could I have walked away, O Nature?
Except that there was so much to attend to:
full diapers and money needs, thoughts
which never stopped.
You can understand that, can’t you?
Can’t you?
In the pin hole sized life left behind
by Earth’s reposession of all, I’ll finally hear
Nature whisper back:
I warned you. I was warning you the whole time.
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