A wee itsy-bitsy crisis, darling.
I ache as if I had plunged head first, and from the highest summit, to hit the bed of a dried-up river. I can’t see you on any cosmographic map. I’m blind, deprived of prodigious, timely observations, grating my body against the charred areas of the moon. Lunar mountains, lunar rocks harassing me with insufferable geological questions I’ll never be able to answer. The nightmare.
Where are you? My son? My daughter? My grand-daughter? My grand-son? Centuries of separation. Anxiety descending in a compact, ovoid punch, but not a single raindrop falling to cool my quavering hands. The rustling of leaves, though, having come to an inexplicable halt.
A primal urge to make a phone call. It’s forbidden. No help. Static electricity crippling my gland secretions. Evading weapons fire, or are these thunderclaps? Millions of suns, the cosmos blowing apart, a hundred million years about to fall grotesquely into black holes. Red-shifted projections of a worldwide microscopic revolt. Hypersonic alerts leaving dense signatures on relic matter collapsing onto itself. Collisions of heavy ions. The super-symmetry of my habits suddenly deranged by cataclysmic satellite explosions. My balance catapulted right in the aftermath of the Big Bang, the departure of speedy projectiles hailed in a mad, deafening applaud. Generations of quarks, and all their possible timelines, branching into historical divergence, a tangent universe, multiple world interpretations, anachronistic life-forms angrily tampering with improbabilities. Nanoseconds making a huge, terrible difference. Mirror-universes chattered, a prelude to wide combinations of bad luck. Compulsive memory like water impossible to track. On impulse, remotely detonated monosyllables cracking my brain like a peanut. Wordlessly, registering dislocation. Ruthlessly, without a cocoon. Excruciating pain, right here, bracketed by sharp, mercurial fangs biting my disguise.
How far away yet to nightfall? To harmless homelessness?
Behind sunglasses, I wait, impenetrable.
I’m good. Now brushing away with a finger the puff of leftover dust from my shoulder.
Just a wee itsy-bitsy tipsy, hanging in there since 1953. So tired. The thumb still twitching a bit. Maybe a butterfly flapping its wings, an imperceptible change, a movement in a dynamic system prone to chaotic events. A butterfly thereupon flapping its wings, because the last tornado didn’t vaporize it.
Make a note: The butterfly, it’s after, not before. Gee whiz, they're hard of understanding when trying to explain life's ripples.
Laolao
I ache as if I had plunged head first, and from the highest summit, to hit the bed of a dried-up river. I can’t see you on any cosmographic map. I’m blind, deprived of prodigious, timely observations, grating my body against the charred areas of the moon. Lunar mountains, lunar rocks harassing me with insufferable geological questions I’ll never be able to answer. The nightmare.
Where are you? My son? My daughter? My grand-daughter? My grand-son? Centuries of separation. Anxiety descending in a compact, ovoid punch, but not a single raindrop falling to cool my quavering hands. The rustling of leaves, though, having come to an inexplicable halt.
A primal urge to make a phone call. It’s forbidden. No help. Static electricity crippling my gland secretions. Evading weapons fire, or are these thunderclaps? Millions of suns, the cosmos blowing apart, a hundred million years about to fall grotesquely into black holes. Red-shifted projections of a worldwide microscopic revolt. Hypersonic alerts leaving dense signatures on relic matter collapsing onto itself. Collisions of heavy ions. The super-symmetry of my habits suddenly deranged by cataclysmic satellite explosions. My balance catapulted right in the aftermath of the Big Bang, the departure of speedy projectiles hailed in a mad, deafening applaud. Generations of quarks, and all their possible timelines, branching into historical divergence, a tangent universe, multiple world interpretations, anachronistic life-forms angrily tampering with improbabilities. Nanoseconds making a huge, terrible difference. Mirror-universes chattered, a prelude to wide combinations of bad luck. Compulsive memory like water impossible to track. On impulse, remotely detonated monosyllables cracking my brain like a peanut. Wordlessly, registering dislocation. Ruthlessly, without a cocoon. Excruciating pain, right here, bracketed by sharp, mercurial fangs biting my disguise.
How far away yet to nightfall? To harmless homelessness?
Behind sunglasses, I wait, impenetrable.
I’m good. Now brushing away with a finger the puff of leftover dust from my shoulder.
Just a wee itsy-bitsy tipsy, hanging in there since 1953. So tired. The thumb still twitching a bit. Maybe a butterfly flapping its wings, an imperceptible change, a movement in a dynamic system prone to chaotic events. A butterfly thereupon flapping its wings, because the last tornado didn’t vaporize it.
Make a note: The butterfly, it’s after, not before. Gee whiz, they're hard of understanding when trying to explain life's ripples.
Laolao
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
photo+album).jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
No comments:
Post a Comment