reductio ad absurdum
Oh Deija, if you ever were, if you ever were right now,
would my words mean anything? I cannot speak
your mother tongue:
the language of the undimensioned realms,
your modality of erasure,
from a time when words were silent.
Once, nearby, and long before, there were corners
where the dust met beams of light.
When thoughts were more than ululations,
when sunroads ran ahead in charms and spangles,
when the winds that combed the forest’s hair
were still invisible.
The demolition of the earth, it came and went,
and I found employment as a landscape gardener,
painting scissors purple and planting them in furrows—
consolation for the homesick Martians.
Soon enough, the capricious blue invaders
lost interest in our planet, decided Venus
might be worth a go.
Now I travel through the future’s barrens,
where even the horizon’s shimmer
can’t remember water, and where
the wind-torn atmosphere, spinning
free through nights and days,
no longer cares for planetary rotation.
I don’t remember how I came to be here,
but I know I’ve left myself behind, and that
I’m a failure of my own imagination.
In the lining of a pocket, I come across a note—
Care instructions: wash in cold water, do not spin dry.
and in another, paper, and a broken crayon.
Deija Thoris, Martian legend.
A new project starting with Paul Sutton, instagram’s impermanent secretary, who, with his x-ray vision superpower, observes and captures what mere mortals miss. Here is a captivating example at tumblr.