theScienceofPoetry

I am the dull strange star waiting on the brink, night rising in a rush a thick black line rushing up and over the rind of us-- my hardened skin, my oak unmade and soft damaged innards pure elements oozing from the superheated blue eyes slowly glazing, life ablaze in a fire that took the fire and the shell is only chemical hurtling along alone, learning not to try and trying not to feel the cosmos anymore

The Scientists. We remade our eyes of plastic because we can wipe them clean without pain: at night our skin has been fitted with lights and we altered the chemical pattern in our brains to forget ourselves or maybe the rest of you, life is hard without numbers to describe it because the Earth is an irregular rock floating somewhere inconceivable: and I am even more a mystery, a contradiction seeking a definitive despite the logic of entropy, the only continuity is none. The Activists. I'll rewrite us again. We are nothing but an idea of the issue and its resolution, the bum sleeping in the back of a truck or your quantum physics class,

waking up to blind-sifted dawns viewed from a couch angle cricking wasted neck. this place now a palace of my unkempt regret. or a mausoleum. my realest truth these days is your eternity; i've been burning light emitting diodes into my faulty memory in hopes that penitence is rewarded in your athenaeum. femurs folded fetally, never more alone than when together. never build a trust on me, for i am proven to be unsure underneath my sternum. choose your words carefully, sharply. i'm an archery target in the form of an open heart, and though you're drawn with all your strength, i'll swallow your contoured face and all prior mistakes and in my

there’s something breathing on Ganymede deep in the galactic spiral abyss      [a box in the attic hiding      the heat from our anodized secrets] yet whatever happened to the achromatic? before being juxtaposed with ‘crowd control’    in the epoch of this human spike/whose remnants line our sunken roads and invective innuendo screaming down carbon-fiber nanotubes has prepared us for our second encounter with senescence appearing live on television so all can be amused

Vacate! And disentangle from the old familiar shadow-works, from slim Siamese deflecting light, from facets miring in our clock-face from the tribal hum of sheetrock, recurrent trumpets maddening our corners of the cosmic cog. Separation is the rite of birth, discovery and flight! Head north and west, for higher sky and find a porthole, red summer stone where winds will rush through the fleshmaker’s mouth slowing our feral, atomic brume to the comfortable gait of gravitons dangling just beneath our soles in the Garden of the Gods.

Every swooning blade of grass vindicated. The deep blue silence of a turning wheel. A precise number of fireflies in the apples. The coiled jealousy of all reptiles. The palsy of a prisoner's first sob. A tranquil sorrow in a dog's ribcage. All faces obliterated from the moon. Nirvana observed among smooth pebbles. The slough of mountain summits in decline. Every planet reprieved of its orbit. The ecstasy within a mandala. The space between spaces. Honing the blade by passing through it.

we are never touching-- none of us. every embrace is a microscopic romeo and juliet performance. and I wonder, if we are living on earth, an electron, and the sun an atom of an arm is offering comfort, then maybe, the solar system adjacent is the atom of another's shoulder trying desperately to feel the other's skin, warmth, love. and there is something scary about that there is something scary about that there is something awful aw- ful about how when you are crying and I am cutting the stream off at impasse it is impossible for my atoms to push against your atoms it is impossible for my being to more than mingle with your being