of ghosted jamborees, far from the schoolyard…
they are still singing in the shadows
in the rustiest blue metallic twang.
In the playground’s farthest corner, there is a shade
without a name, who builds himself from clay
towards Plato’s primary sun. I analyze the geometry
of non-Euclidean trees, study the binaural scratch
of dangling leaves… the cows come for the slaughter.
It is time to leave again. The wind
blows kyries. My neck tilts on the bone.
How long has earth been dead? The poverty
fills the space between my breaths
to inhuman depths. The sound is wrong,
her voice overspun with pallor, you mustn’t go,
pale dress of milkweed and cobwebs, mustn’t go.
The porchlight, the door latch,
the breaking glass. A century later
nothing’s changed. When will we leave tonight?
The line recedes beyond the railroad tracks…
you can still follow on. Into the yellow evening
our voices chase the other echoes on.
The lemon-scented lemniscate ladens sky
The lemon-scented lemniscate ladens sky
with calligraphic citrus, the final fruit of infinity
pendulating among equidistributed constellations
whose penumbral palm presses the
gleam
of electroluminescent green among
the auroras,
the choral hymns, the antiphons of
phosphenes,
omega, psi, chi, chanting back to
the rapt pareidoliac
as summer’s summarium et expeditum
rescinds
to primordial sums of suns and
moons
and suns again. Ho-hum. Another
lemma proved
inconsequential, another sequence
of primes
sequestered, another series of
partials
partially incomplete. Nevermind.
Just take
a plane and project a map among
the spheres
and on that map plot a loxodrome
of milky lines,
devise clélies among the
Pleiades, concoct
chiralities of cochleoids, limn a Lissajous curve
in lissome glissando, not
overmuch, but enough
to sense the sonoluminescence of aleatoric
time
as qualia arise within the flux of
quantum foam,
within the fluidity of effluvia,
the vicissitudes
becoming less viscous. It is
natural to feel
afraid amidst the profligacy of
rosenblooming
maps to Sirius, Alpha Centauri,
Procyon.
From anabasis to katabasis, from metamorphosis
to kenosis, the chronofilaments and
consiliences
hyperetherealize in a network of anastomosis.
Departures and destinations, stellated, the Mnemnosyne-Acchuranga line going to many globular clusters, passing by Canopus, Arcturus, the Small Magellanic Cloud. The tickets, I hear, have tricky contractual obligations negotiated down to the picosecond, but these are opaque for the ticket holders. Amenities include several complete memomic libraries for many species, readily browsable by holographic interface, worthy computer equipment of many descriptions, both ancient and modern, and customizable immersive sensory environments of all forms and formats.... (long marketingspeke descriptions of /this is a stellar place/).
ReplyDeleteI'm inexpert: I blunder. I'm bad with the sort of reasoning which passes for decent in promissory insurance scenarios, as I prefer empircally algorithmic guarantees wrapped in transcendental coronae and flitted across spacetime. A yes answer has related question for which the answer is no, and sculpting responses which transcend that potential for logical ambiguity frequently vexes me. So, inasmuch as the world is contingent, and life transitory, and an ever mucilaginous array of uncertainties blears toward nauseating scintillations, the conversation with the ticket agent, though fraught with absurdities, was successful.