2005-02-09 - 10:52 p.m.
is there some logic or at least reason to this machine
that scatters its sons and daughters
across gravel and smokestacking power grids as cars bloom like sideways mountains from tunnel mouths and eagerly crush the barren yet not uninhabited road
the simple task of connecting the sun to itself via strands of hopelessness that nevertheless burn and coalesce in your forehead over tea, over whiskey, over a blank table of yesterdays plans, is nearly impossible. as is speech.
and you're putting a new door on the echo chamber, the eyes of microphones will toil over your notes and paper will be transmuted here, canvas will sprout flailing lines to baffle the carpenter and sage alike, though they've never been photographed together.
and when you speak or open your eyes there is a delay between molecules, a shortness of breath at quantuum, a shrinking of things and an enlarging of the spaces between them, a pulling out into soft focus- only to have the spaces filled with more maddening detail. and, as you wonder who drew the first straight line, who conceptualized the parallel and opposing sides of the shape we call a square, is it the growth of the mechanical, crystalline yet organic in the manner of our second nervous system (not yet scientifically verifiable)
that frightens you
that turns your cold eye on itself
that makes all days approach one another , that generates an anticipitory humming barely held at background level by the surface chatter of what we deem "actual events". the anticipation of knowledge, circuitous, molten, washes over you
and things again draw closer.
oh yes, the eye opens, the studious tree unfurls
