baby junco
Wriggling by in fast forward, Snake slithered to a halt. What presumption! As though everything began somewhere, in a moment. Snake focused an unblinking eye and, finding no beginning, had his tail for lunch.
In the usual telling, all the ads blur together, mixing bits of reality in with olives on a pizza. And no telling what's hidden in the rubber band strands of mozzarella that draw attention to themselves. What if it is actually an ongoing slither? The aftermath of a bubble that popped, but not all at once? Putting stock in the afterbirth of microwave radiations captures only the highlights, missing completely an onslaught of dark matter that cruds up the oven door. Cleanse the doors of perception if you like, the recrudescence accumulates anyway. It is dark, dark, dark . . .
A Big Bang crumples all that (is and isn't)into an instant. This is gross. A convenience. Shows a lack of appreciation. True, a snake strike happens quick as lightning, reminding . . . but that is for people in a hurry. True magnificence suffuses all that (is and isn't), does not reveal itself in just one jolt. It will, in fact, be missed if looking within the confines of a single moment. Smaller and smaller the consideration recedes, until vanishing.
Strands of string theory will stretch until finally snapping. The ensuing vacancy will fill a gap, at least theoretically. How is it that black olives are preferred? Dark matter is simply inferred, on a presumption in league with the Bang.
In our backyard, my friend baby Junco hops onto the fence while I put out some bits of walnut. Lands by my hand and chirps. I reply, but not too loudly. Her song is beautiful without intending to be so. I think it has been this way for longer than we can remember. A chirp might be taken for a Bang, if hurtling fast forward. But we're in no hurry. To my knowledge, there never has seen a snake on the fence.
the eternal now
It is famished in the blink of an eye. One orders a Big Mac iconic, with apologies to Trader Joe. The lurching train of thought rankles. There is no place for this poet to rest his head, no place safe from rage. How then to go, or not, quietly into that good night? Is it reasonable to speak this way? Responsible?
Ever more destructive tornadoes rip through cities at night. The keepers of Armageddon are mum, hunkering down over top secrets. The virus lurches on through towns and cities, over wide pastures, stalking believers and unbelievers alike.
There has been a report of a large cylindrical object, seen by a commercial airline pilot, passing over his plane at great speed, disappearing into the evening news, never to be mentioned again. How would it be fact checked?
The daily dust drifts over my head at night. Compared with the change, which is developing at an increasing rate, catastrophes move at warp speed. The field of time is OK to track Santa Claus in his deliveries, but then he gets lost down a chimney. In the depths it's hard to navigate what isn't really there. Lacking familiar goal posts under the grate, there is a puff of ash. Was that a volcano, or a torpedo? There in a dark corner, is that the tin woodman?
These forays do not seem personal. Rather, they are practice runs in an unfamiliar key, somewhat hesitant, brought along in some time-lapse whirlwind that catches a bamboo flute, tsunamis and tidal waves.
nothing lasts forever
How easy it is to get lost in the seed head of a sunflower. Counting is a possibility. The myriad faces, however, do not confuse bees.
There was a time, once, for telling stories. Then someone remarked that time is not visible anywhere. A waterwheel qualifies, nonetheless, slowly turning.
The wheel never stops. And how do I know? Well, it never began, always coming back around to the beginning. In telling a story, certain things must be filled in, but I am impatient. Not so important to be told are who did what to whom, or why monkeys sing.
Venerable ancestors encountered this problem, squarely met with jabberwok aimed at children. Delightful at first. Yet in having to walk the talk it had to be admitted that the wheel still turns. And more, that what it's about is gone.
Now, to use an unsettling term, when we wake the dream has no fixed abode. As the wheel spins, birds sing, and the sound of dripping water still drips. Wind blows through the trees, though more forcefully since the change. I ponder – perhaps outer space is home to other civilizations, given the vastness. Why limit the field to a water wheel?
Isn't there some comfort in finding room for it? In an oil field of dipping bird-like pumps, red sky at night, the sailor’s delight is given over to utter vastness. To display such images in a museum, framed in perspective, recall the seed head.
since time is an orphan
nothing lasts forever
how will this be remembered?
.