Friday, November 9, 2012

Orion’s Orchard

[Poetic Prose]

In the universe, the one that surrounds the world (perhaps the mind as well)—someone once threw a ball into dark matter and dark energy after he created gravity—I do believe—threw a ball, somewhere, and it exploded—and it caused a Big Bang, somewhat in that unseen form of matter that pulls the universe, thus creating the great expansion, that has gone on since who knows when: which slowed everything down a bit, and its thrust (its push, threw everything in all directions) which is still keeping it airborne: carried by the shove that was set in motion (so very long ago—perhaps some fifteen-billion years ago); hence, when it loses its momentum, it will crash, I do suppose, and all that is, will be the ball (its substance: what is hanging onto it, in it): that is all that will be left, everything else just: waves, just waves in nothingness: waves that were made by that One person who forced out,  as a result, nothingness and all that it created will came to some kind of a standstill (I repeat)—it has to: for what will carry it—when all the engines that run the universe weaken, and the nuclear force and the electromagnetism collapse? When the protons and neutrons no longer come together in the nucleus of an atom, and no longer do the great galaxies spin fast enough and fly apart. Save that, that someone (I call God) does not create something else out of some kind of a new nothing. It’s how it was, how it had to be, how else could it have been: all this nothingness come about to surround the world, with all its “t’s” crossed, and its “I’s” dotted, with its universal gravitational balance. We normally don’t think this way, lest we want our minds to become mad.
       I heard a voice in this dream I had within my mind, it said: “I am immortal, I sit behind the suns, and I write epitaphs of all, all the living things, then I open up their lips, an endless task it seems at times: the zenith of life comes from nothingness—and I, I alone hear their dying wish: to remain, to be: to some extent, be like me forevermore. Eyeless faces, pale and un-molded, that is what you all were once, but by My graces so you all became something more than nothing.
       “Orion’s illumed by My side, showers Me like a rainbow with its gasses, breathless orchard: it is the magnificent mocker of the universe: perhaps you would call it such, perchance: Baudelaire’s fantasy; or Poe’s Twilight; or Clark Ashton Smith’s perilous deep orchards; George Sterling’s musical images, ghostly lights; Dr. Dennis L. Siluk’s murmur, bemused silence; Philip Ellis’ epigrammatic flight of the imagination. Amir Or’s Israel, or perhaps even Robin Jeffers’ “The Great Explosion.”  Hence, I touch, only touch (lest I destroy My own makings): only touch beyond its burning drums, into the winds of nothingness—what I created it all out of. The horse-head: it roars like a volcano, a moat around Me; the Universe is like a squeezing viper at times, a sacrificial rip in all the proportions I’ve carved out of the thrust, as you call it—or have called it, from the push: I fixed it for you: the watchers from earth.
       “You see and you don’t see I created two different things (well, perhaps more but you won’t understand that), different states of the same thing, and when you study this more, you will understand, why your existence is possible. For without mass, the universe would not be the way it is, nor would you be the way you are. And there’s no way for you to understand me, when you can’t even figure out the glue I used, to glue it all together.”

#1366 6/5/2006; written while at the El Parquetito Café in Miraflores, Lima, Peru, one afternoon (reedited, 7-2012)