A silent maw,
carved into the velvet of spacetime,
drinks the universe
without sound, without shape—
just the slow, spiraled collapse
of everything once known.

Its edge—a burning halo
of fused copper, liquid bronze,
and ionized fire,
spins at the speed of forgetting,
blurring into a ring of sheer velocity—
a lens where reality folds in on itself.

Around it:
deep red streamlines,
maroon currents of orphaned light,
taper and twist like oil on black water—
gravity made visible.

In the distance, galaxies drift—
fractured spirals in periwinkle dust,
nebulae bruised in plum and violet,
their tendrils stretched thin
by the pull of this ancient siphon.

It does not speak.
But it rearranges everything—
light becomes arc,
time becomes thread,
motion becomes stillness.

The accretion disk—a
maelstrom of starbone and ash,
where photons skim the surface
but never escape,
trapped in orbit,
a crown of failure and flame.

Beyond the pull,
light teeters, bends, breaks—
an aurora of shattered timelines
wrapped in lapis smoke,
flickering in rhythm
to a silence we will never unhear.

Each orbit marks a memory—
not ours,
but the universe’s—
stitched into the architecture of collapse.

There is no edge,
no true surface,
only the illusion of descent
into perfect black—
not emptiness,
but the compression of everything.

We are bystanders.
Frozen,
watching entropy dress itself
in colors we’ve never seen before.

No know sense of infinitude (asking why not?)


       ~
noun: the state, the quality of being without limit, infinite


drew first breath, woken to the heart’s thankless task,

conscious aware, that the solved proofs deny infinitude,

yet, triumvirate of five senses, brain waving, a steadying thumping heart,

all asking why not?

can I will it?

the body’s parts convene, debating furious, some claiming
a sell-by-date cellular programmed, nothing to be done,
dimming of the day, a human necessity, the self-salvaging process

but a single cell, a mouse-sized squeaker, boldface stuns,
”feed me, moisturize, give me sleep + blue blood nourishment,”

the others ashamed of their festival of fear, knowing well
what has gone before, thought dreaming of infinitude, go silent,

while “why not?”
lingers in the lungs, the breathable atmosphere,

the senses spread the quest to every remote province,
with each continuing a chant grows ever louder,
a millennium of poems concealed, yet  awaiting conception,
all entitled
“why not”reverberating.

<+>
7:36am 2022020
nyc everywhere