plateau_connector
Greenlighter
- Joined
- Jun 19, 2010
- Messages
- 19
When winds set to rustling old stars against loose board siding soothing a part of me asleep while the rest is left to pace the sheets, across ecosystems, both swollen feet cemented in the Milky Way, striking oxygen rich discoveries, meaningless to everyone but me.
I've scraps of light to write upon, a suitcase full of atmosphere, Big and Little Dippers boiling starlight- old Orion’s belt & a hypo of Solarcaine.
I got DNA, two of every leaf and beast, zip-locked and labeled safety pinned to my Lunar EVA lapel like a note for God that says:
Thank you for the mystery,
but I got it from here.
I got books in me old astronaut; so give up your gravity! I’ve recorded each detail of bland astral cartography, each fantastic projected conversation still as fresh as the day spoken, like starships of pure language, drifting toward them, the librarians three.
They write instructions for me by speaking, speaking sounds into the air to be read while The Three Hyperspace Librarians frantically insist I read their sound language all of my 86 billion neurons are each discharging a zepto sized shuttle blast & the instructions are helically vacuumed into a violent Fibonacci of cosmic geometric macramé along with them, me and the meaning of everything.
We all wince in the face of the whimper, guffaw at the BANG! and despite the barrier of what I thought language could be I now know their words by heart without ever having read them; I know them like my own carbon decay.
It’s this biological trick of trapping light in matter, propagating body while every force in the cosmos is working the other way.
And as I’m being plucked back to the sheets of my bed, in the room of my home, on the square of my lawn, which is one small portion of a majestically misshapen mass of land surrounded by water, all rolled into a sphere, hurtling through the nothing at a rate of 1.603 million miles per day,
The Three say to me;
“That old stone ball you call home is just a placenta feeding, all the embryonic sparks your monkey bodies carry will outgrow the flesh until photons are all that’s left.
So don’t be afraid astronauts for your beautiful monkey children, swathed in luscious proteins, jumping rope in the great black entropic sea, soon you all will finally see how much more becoming photons can be.”
I've scraps of light to write upon, a suitcase full of atmosphere, Big and Little Dippers boiling starlight- old Orion’s belt & a hypo of Solarcaine.
I got DNA, two of every leaf and beast, zip-locked and labeled safety pinned to my Lunar EVA lapel like a note for God that says:
Thank you for the mystery,
but I got it from here.
I got books in me old astronaut; so give up your gravity! I’ve recorded each detail of bland astral cartography, each fantastic projected conversation still as fresh as the day spoken, like starships of pure language, drifting toward them, the librarians three.
They write instructions for me by speaking, speaking sounds into the air to be read while The Three Hyperspace Librarians frantically insist I read their sound language all of my 86 billion neurons are each discharging a zepto sized shuttle blast & the instructions are helically vacuumed into a violent Fibonacci of cosmic geometric macramé along with them, me and the meaning of everything.
We all wince in the face of the whimper, guffaw at the BANG! and despite the barrier of what I thought language could be I now know their words by heart without ever having read them; I know them like my own carbon decay.
It’s this biological trick of trapping light in matter, propagating body while every force in the cosmos is working the other way.
And as I’m being plucked back to the sheets of my bed, in the room of my home, on the square of my lawn, which is one small portion of a majestically misshapen mass of land surrounded by water, all rolled into a sphere, hurtling through the nothing at a rate of 1.603 million miles per day,
The Three say to me;
“That old stone ball you call home is just a placenta feeding, all the embryonic sparks your monkey bodies carry will outgrow the flesh until photons are all that’s left.
So don’t be afraid astronauts for your beautiful monkey children, swathed in luscious proteins, jumping rope in the great black entropic sea, soon you all will finally see how much more becoming photons can be.”
