I remember the thousand
afternoons
with her
made
so obviously
from star dust and rivers
and the tallgrass
of Texas
when she meowed
I did hear the mischievy
of the Big Bang
you know
the thing hearing itself as itself
you
me
these are words you’re reading
right now
in this place in time
I guess you’re on a planet
but it’s possible a space vessel
or
in the plasma of a supernova
information as matter
and matter as information
the Pinky Da Principle
It was a pedestal from the sun
that healed me.
Precipiced before the town of my youth.
This same pedestal supplanted the
cellular variables in my female
kitty cat
and while it gave me the energy of
my next birth
it also gave her cancer,
like a plant of metabolism,
a burning of time.
If the intuition of the scientists is me
then it is also the way that I have loved
and lost
the delicate and vulnerable souls
that
I have loved.
These afternoons between time
can never be repeated.
They are outside the script of
fragile acceptance
whose acknowledgement
has made me eternal.
We can only but get to Mars now
Can I kiss you?
Can I under those blue white skies
skirt the hues of red and orange
and beige
and feel your textured, crusted lips
dry there
waiting for a humanness to know you
amongst routines, ritual, and duty
to clone
the next progenial elation
to sample
to sample
what were the forms and ways before
in a new kind of gravity
a different context
the answering of ionized metals
for redemption
for our redemption
the new ways of being
so
from this space port I buzz to you
my mercury and iron oxide singing
With you, for you, I shaped a
thousand planets.
Trailed freckles and oceans.
Believed in your breath and doubted
your words in the shadows of
timber rafters in houses,
because you are imperfect,
mostly in the corridors of humans.
When driving in a car on a country
highway
between
Fort Worth and Granbury
the Universe was born.
There, on Spring, ten years ago
you noticed we’ve seen
these worlds a million times over.
So then we become afraid to love.
Turned into man and woman.
Red rock and grasses.
Surrounded by oak trees.
Our emotions are mathematic.
Something that is for and from before.
We’ll kiss in dreams at night.
We will be unformed.
She became an idea.
An idea that wore dresses,
loved capitalism,
wanted children,
and had corporeal feelings
embedded in memories and
neurons.
This idea drove in a white
stationwagon
from Texas to New York City
and would never be seen
again.
She woke up from a ghost
on a planet
seven hundred and fifty
light years away
and had foggy remembrance
of a different way of life
and
a different count of days.
The landscape turned from
the white plaster walls of
temples to orange mountains
in the distance
and the navy blue night far
up above.
She breathed.
Her heart beat.
She remembered someone she
once loved.
She looked down at her wrists
and ankles.
Her eyes blinked.
She lived.
A transmitter brought transference.
A lifetime had been stored in
molecules, configured into
radiation and
prior held assumptions were
antiquated.
When you go away at night
It
goes away through the oak trees
to the west
It. It. It.
It trails along the Atlantic Ocean
in the stars of Milky Way, the dreams of
our ancestors
They trail and trail a scattered dust
So many different worlds here
But really there is only one
One. One. One.
Where we have met and where
the heart dwells
That is what’s important here
The unification of something unknown
to
petulant mortals
to the nationed ones, the loyalists
those with small and narrow learnings
We are carrying the same revolutionary
light
of the sun, we are the message in a body
We are courage and love and wonderment
Such scattered genetic beings, vulnerable
and imperfect
and
we too, are eternally mathematically mortal
Damn, they want to send a space submarine
to the methane sea of Titan by 2040.
I’ll be 63 years old then, if I make it that long.
I’d like to be onboard that submarine.
One would need to be fearless.
What if they encountered some strange
and gargantuan creature?
I believe in such a situation I would be fearless.
One would have no other choice, being
886 million miles away from home.
All my life I’ve had this feeling of some
form of galactic fearlessness.
I guess this is what it’s for, a space
submarine trip to one of Saturn’s moons.
It could also be faith, faith in an ageless
Universe.
An agelessness that destroys myths and fears
and leaves possible every iteration of every
physical arrangement,
for always
and for this always to always be again.
there are things i don’t understand
we were bonded bacterially
i’m fairly sure the unification of some sort of
bacterial ecosystem
had something to do with our draw and lust
toward each other
something like that
>>
it was a power lust, a power lust
the joining of two or even multiple bacterial
kingdoms
The sunrise is transitory
when it touches me
and I use it
to talk to you clandestinely.
The light talks to
your sacred pituitary gland
then
you know me
in your head
and heart.
Even though
you’ve set out
to forget me,
in
the sunlight
you will
know me
everyday
on this sweet Earth.
It’s what we share.
It’s how we love.
I give thanks
to
your
diffuse modulatory systems,
they make you human
even
when
you work your hardest
not to be,
to be callous, resentful and cold
as
you grow old.
I grow eternal.
I know you’re not a robot
and
the sunlight traveling
tells you something otherwise
in
your corporeal heart
that rushes upon the universe,
that your head
occasionally listens to.
Kiss and you shall feel the air.
My vanquished ghost. No.
My lingering tome. The smell
of our home. Winter Twenty-Twelve.
I am still there. Burning the spiced
cranberry in your heart.
You misplaced your feelings in
between moments of sipping booze
and placing your glass down upon
the wooden credenza to stain it.
For your breath can vanquish
unattainable concerns,
or Hollywood human existence.
The transitory bourgeoisie.
Now can you
kiss the air in the time portal I walk
within?
Or make my electrons vector.
Bring your insecurities to flesh
with courage.
I live within your DNA.
Humble, Humble Love 