from zero to decaf latte

the_improbable_castle_s

It starts with fire and ends with rain,
zero is infinity
and my home
is filled with strangers,
yet their strangeness is not reciprocal.

zero
Everything’s unpointed,
worth the special introductory
price of free.

The scientist Irene in white
peered over her half-moons.

Let’s apply a little logic: if everything
is worthless, so is that idea.
Come with me to Improbable Park.

The Park was at the end of the street
on the edge of a map near the end
of the world, bounded by a faded frame
of reference.

Its trees were made of books
to complete a cyclic process, and the
sky was piecemeal grey with windy dirt
in jet streams blowing to the sea.
The rest was molten cubism
in a nod to setting the scene.

I tore a leaf from a magnolia and read it.

diy
Make your own domestic appliances the easy way.

  • visit the mountains of the metal ages
  • trap metallographic cumulus nymphs in a net
    by leaving chromic sweets as bait
  • you will need electric power and aspirin,

and for the machines they build—
clothes or crockery, food or a house.

infinity
me:
The fire in the infinite sea
burns fiercely. It’s frightening,
I’d rather watch tv.

Irene:
Infinity is all around us,
you can thank the world
for that.

They say the universe began
in the smallest quantum blip,
but the starting point was as complex
as the universe itself.

I become resentful in the face of the unknown.

You’re only here for exposition
in a conversational milieu,
you don’t exist at all,
yet you babble like an android
and sleep in formal wear.
(The icing on my critical appraisal.)

That’s not me, she said, it’s you.

She came a little closer
and looked into my eyes
while I fumbled in my pockets
for my asthma inhalation.


artwork
Castle in Improbable Park, some improbable detail—

18 thoughts on “from zero to decaf latte

  1. This morning I wanted, no needed to read some words lined up by instinct and thought. I did not want to open a book to get this. I did not want to attempt to write one, and there your words were in my inbox. hehehe Thank you

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I love all the paradox in your work. The juxtaposition of the mystical and the mundane, the last stanza for example.

    And this struck me: “That’s not me, she said, that’s you.” I may be misinterpreting, but the first thing that came to mind was all our projections onto others.

    I love the sound of this stanza:
    The Park was at the end of the street
    on the edge of a map near the end
    of the world, bounded by a faded frame
    of reference.

    Another delicious piece. I had it for breakfast. Don’t think I need pancakes now. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thanks BG , it was fun to write this piece, I had no idea where it was going when it started 😃.

      Projections, yes. To me, it’s like the dark side of empathy. Mind you, if I think about fictional characters in a writer’s mind, made up of impressions of real people (with projections) and the writer’s self-image, my head will explode 💥 so better not to.

      Thanks for mentioning the sound of that stanza 💚, have to admit I liked it too.

      PS: Yes to pancakes; here right now it’s something uniquely Oz for me: vegemite on toast.

      Liked by 1 person

    • Thanks, I really appreciate your comment. I sometimes have a concern that my own experiences might not be relatable; they’re reflected in my work and so there would be no mirror. Glad to hear that’s not the case. 🙂

      Like

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