In the first breath,
when our quanta
were lined up in pairs
and shaking hands,
the cosmic seed
erupted with violence.

Perpetual particles,
blasted through
space over time,
and left this atomic web
that expands to converge,
dissolves to reshape,
into infinite patterns…
into transient forms.

Forms are sculpted
by the ceaseless
building and branching
of chances and choices–
of cause and effect–
collapsing into structure,
actualizing into being–
Our beings.

In these carbon containers,
our particles find home together,
shaking hands once again…
all finally here,
all inevitably perfect,
as they rejoin and rejoice
in the same cosmic instant.

Playing ball
with a sack
full of words,
I nod along
as you set up.
Clinging to my drink
as if my bones
were connected,
I trace my pocket
over and over again.
Until finally,
your voice slows,
and my hands catch
your words.
As they reach
to toss back
a response,
I’m relieved
to have something–
anything–
to do with my hands.

Cutting through the canvas of silence,
you present as a practiced painter,
laying out all your lines
with deliberate ease.

Each stroke
of your tongue
frames intention
with perfect dimension,
while this pause
signals invitation
for interpretation.

But the shapes your lips make,
collapse with your features,
and I’m left unsure of your tone.
I can't gauge your reaction,
but it dictates my next word.

Your brushstrokes fall faster
than I’m able to sift through
my archives of memory,
searching for something
that might help me relate.

I inventory my pallet of words
But the pigments are dull
And their boundaries blended.
I try to string together a response,
But the art of conversation
is lost on me.

I’m Triaxial,              
In geometry,          
This X, Y, and Z…              
Caged by coordinates–          
So planar, unfree          

And time’s forward flow,          
Just won’t let me go,                
It’s sometimes too fast…  
Then, relatively too slow  

There’s a down direction,              
That pulls with oppression,    
Gravity’s fixed force–      
A constant compression

When force is innate,
I’m stuck at it’s rate,
Sunken and buried,
By pressurized weight

And, in this void,
Nothing’s destroyed,
Change is the constant,
From which all is deployed

While my perception,
Is a small projection,
Of fundamentals,
Below our detection

I myself am just an extension
Of laws beyond comprehension…
I’m suffocating, blind
Stuck here, in this **** Third Dimension

You notice…
The light bend in your seven *****
as your thumb cramps fidgeting.

You notice…
The small tear she wears on her fishnets
as she glides by, reloading your glass.

Your notice…
The couple celebrating across the labyrinth
as you hope–and swear–you’re up next.

You notice…
The way the gentleman smirks
as he unfurls a loaded hand.

You even notice…
Your eyes now have to squint
as you move your jeff cap to shield
the rising sun.

It’s pulling upwards,
bleeding its colors,
spewing its rays
as it sears through
the lonely window.

But with your anchored gaze,
You don’t notice it at all.

As kinetic chaos surges,
Each atom flings outward,
From my marrow’s middle,
Toward the gates of my skin.

The brittle shell
holding me together
Threatens to burst,
While the entropy
pinging down my limbs
commands me into motion.

Boiling toward a peak within,
the cigarette clenched in hand
Becomes my means to bleed it.

Foam lines move outwards

From oars that pierce stillness

Spreading just to fade.