Light. A remnant from the birth
of the universe is sneaking
through the glass.
Birds. They called each other,
chirping more quickly
than they should,
a sense of urgency
because the world
Me. In a cold bed, taking notes
in shorthand, or possibly Klingon.
My certificate from Mrs Smedley,
mathematics, Class 2B, faded in the wash,
and now my resume is a modulated
modicum of nothing.
Nothing ever steers me
from my ocean of delusions.
Cumulonimbus wraps my mind,
and far beyond, the planets orbit,
on Tuesdays, the perigee of Mars,
on Fridays, the apogee of Venus.
In polydecahedral reveries,
I dream that there’s another side of me,
less of mist and long-departed ghosts,
and more of origami, matchsticks,
and white sand.
I’ve tried to see my life from above its plane,
my street from a fractal dimension,
but the minutiae of existence are comforting.
They hold me in the small and lonely hours
when the cricket’s long antennae
are pointers in the night,
drifting through the edges of reality.
Coda. I collect the curios,
the matchstick trinkets,
to protect me
from the only ghost
the ghost of me.
In my youth, I did a lot of collecting: stamps, rocks, leaves, and less common items, such as bottle tops, scavenged from the trodden dirt in parks. Collecting lends a sense of security, of safety. It’s an occupation that shields our psyches from our insignificance in space-time.
The Edge of Reality, or Sunday, Friday, and Tuesday, is about the echo of the days (which represent celestial bodies) in the hours after midnight. Artwork created with VEE, the visual evolution engine, together with ALISA, Adaptive Layered Image Synthesis, for the figures, and the all new CYNDE, cyclic nonlinear desaturation. Inconstant art in my garage; info about VEE, videos, etc and contact form here.