Story of an atom


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I had a universe for him

The taste and strum of life

Burning constellations

Across highways and highnights

He was made of stars and I

Could limn particles in tears

And quirks and smiles, I

Could make him remember

The passage of meteors

The cascades of merrillite

But he ingested noise

Instead of trajectories, instead

Of logic-nodes in feeling

He left me with my trunkfull

Of planets, and vapour trails

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The bottom


We have complained of various things

Difficult to conceptualize

In fact, there is no bottom to anything

That is what the mind cannot accept

Not relativity or infinity

Not birth or death

But the fantasy that a drawer

Holds forks despite gravity

There is no bottom to anything

A vase, a finer illusion than a soul

And your bowl will never empty

Just the same as it began

Low Disk Space


“In the near future

Petrogenic tubes will allow us

To map each other’s hearts

And not in the sense of

Pulse, pressure, or saturation;

We will be able to translate “I forgot”

Into everything that was unsaid

And tease the edges of communion

Wrapping into ourselves.”

“You should have just returned my calls.

It’s a basic signalling game –

But this may be my favourite

Of all your fragile lies.”

Red medium


He has red eyes

And hair like the curls of a French horn

My father had trouble expressing emotion

My mother, with expressing too much

Ask me which I am

Of a given day

And I’ll show you both

Origins


“No, I don’t believe in our having been chimpanzees, or cavemen, or peasants without indoor plumbing, or the like. Don’t go calling me a creationist, though – I can see it in your face. I think the creationists have it wrong, too.

“I’ll allow for the possibility of dinosaurs and the planet being however many eons old. But I’m not going to be suckered in by the theory that our ancestors ran around for millennia without cotton underwear, Advil, or knowing to boil their water.

“You’ll see why, if you think about it. So many untreatable itches and infections would have gotten us. No black pants or clean pads – if the predators didn’t get you, the vaginosis would have. No oatmeal baths or baby-grade laundry detergent. No cranberry juice, probiotics, antibiotics, acid capsules, or surgeons to pick out stray bits of uterus.

“No. We all had to be born somehow, and there’s just no way that vaginas could have survived in the wild.”