Even more Poems
~ in their final stages
Energy
Words hinge upon unfettered sentiment—
into the abyss—the poet, tired and untried,
peels layers from lies and flesh
—lies one endures like a forced consummation;
but mostly lies suppressed, forgotten.
—and flesh, old and unwashed but somehow
fresh, raw from overuse because feelings
unbecoming, have seeped, settled,
compressed tectonically,
destined to dormant-ly lie until one day
they flow fully, freeing the poet,
now a puppet, limp from the ploy.
“It cannot be created nor destroyed”
—Recognition,
is transferred from the artist
to the audience and back again,
reigniting the fire, the burning desire
to create, though the form taken
had already been decided, shaped
by the very audience it had been intended.
Immortality
If I was a proton
waiting for the end,
what tragic agency I would have to commence,
to achieve finality, an end to all things
for surely nothing lasts.
Like idleness, infinity, Immortality
does not exist—only in our minds does it test
or expand our limits, only in our ignorance
does it attest to absoluteness.
For this, God persists
despite surviving
its own creations, our brief span long dead,
history, our time erased
by some sure cataclysm: Take your pick?
Nothing lasts, not even the universe
because the Iron black star,
a near invisible bomb,
where one to many
yet few remaining electrons,
meet their anti counterparts, granting
gravity’s collapse, destroying
the universe faster than light, a likely end?
​
This assumes that God, is in fact
immortal and doesn’t decay.
And before the Black star’s boundless
but predictable death, its precursor,
the crystalizing white star
of faint light and degenerate density—
primed intensity—shall promise,
against its nature, a possible rebirth
rather than an eternal cold equilibrium,
maximum entropy, a temperature tedium.
​
Because God,
our quaint stable proton,
despite its contradiction, thus paradox,
could not reach oblivion if not
for its undying influence,
its divine hand,
some seventy-five zeros after ten zeros,
after ten eons.
​
Because there is no work to be done,
and distances among forces
are beyond imagination—
stars frozen, space absurdly distended—
​
And God, by its own volition,
is not eternal. Nothing is.
—unless rebirth be its maxim.
Open mic recording
Improbable
“You’re so pretty when you smile,”
but to maintain the façade is hard,
harder than you know, like roiling,
churning bullets in the bowels,
our second brain screams relief,
a ceasefire to the emotions, distraught
and broken; hence the laughter,
which shields us, maintaining the lie we tell
ourselves, while tossing throughout the night,
until a gentle nudge, asks,
“Are you okay?”
The answer: no.
There isn’t any room
for true laughter,
happy bouts, love ever after:
Despair and its shroud, anger,
fill all the crevices, rage against
physics, thermodynamics,
as it disproportions our atoms
within us, teetering us over the edge,
cascading us survivors into oblivion.
Equilibrium, steadiness is the aim,
to balance our mind, heal the body,
to make room for more than just pain.
Stones into bread
Where time stops, the event horizon
spirals our imagination towards a point
somewhere in the infinitesimal
now and literal unforeseeable future;
so visualize the blackhole, flirt
with the arcane beneath known physics.
I believe, hope that humankind can achieve
expansive thought, peace, love
to disperse anger and fear,
like expelling photons when an electron jumps
higher and higher because GR and QM conspire,
to create an enigma out of four solar masses,
a star cooking for a few million years or fewer
if bombarded by gravity waves, or if fed
by its sister, its binary counterpart, caught
in its siphoning embrace.
Slowly, from our humble view, heavier
and heavier nuclei are consumed,
from hydrogen to eventual iron, the core
demands an energy source but can’t release,
and so exothermic fusion ends,
the harbinger of seething
six-quantum-phase-space,
evident position yet wild momenta,
thus probable extreme speeds, while time
ticks slower and slower
like a dying heartbeat, baiting us
in suspense as electrons and protons
are crushed into neutrons, expelling
rich heavy elements, a banquet
from yours truly, signed,
Supernova.
In the aftermath, magnetar and pulsar vie,
revolving six hundred times per second,
surface screaming nearly a fifth of light’s wake.
Like a lighthouse passing over a rock,
we merely catch its favorable
magnetic-light-beam flashing
across our everyday.
And just when you thought your mind
couldn’t bulge any further, when you felt
that your heart couldn’t pump any faster,
the star, of small size but of great weight,
consumes its binary star, revealing
the inescapable black beneath
its improbable density, the impossible
black hole, emerging wildly assuming
its strange location, its rightful place.
​
Because according to us, time has stopped,
observations cease meaning behind
the one-way, light-snagging window,
hiding the monster, who had observed
everything we would come to know.
“Come, I have all the answers
from the point, the horizon of no return.”
ultimatums
One mustn’t dwell in indifference,
deadbolts, confines
that indulge fantasies, mercies:
that last cig on the nightstand,
next to your iron.
Is it companionship,
mere acknowledgement
that one craves, desires, requires,
a brush, a touch,
hand to hand?
Or is it the cavity impressed
by memories denied, loss,
that part of you,
your muse, the sun’s warmth
invigorating one’s reason,
sensation for life’s validation
yet can’t attest, seep inside
into those cold bones
reminiscent of stone?
Do not succumb.
~Bleed. Feel~
and beg tomorrow’s mercy.
Let pride fall with its shaky walls,
so time, amongst the remains
that is your wasteful wreckage,
may draw more than reparations,
more than
we think
we deserve.
