[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)
