Piercing the Bulls' eye

Objectivity is greater than aim can aspire. The subject is information and to extract without distortion. 

We would lose an appendage reaching into a black hole with our light bodies to retrieve already synthesized or archived data and extract it out as if we knew the shape we should be feeling for. 

From this perspective, the reach itself spells only the desire and a scent of mischief of misguided cravings in an attempt to just take the low hanging fruit so we may be satisfied that we tried. 

What happens to ones ten digits once inside a black hole? 

We know the outcome is either zero or one, no less. Possibly patterns that resemble other numbers, like thumbs, and indexes of which the remainder dropped off since it was never whole enough to be a digit of singularity, thus by separating the sheep from its flock, the black one stands out.

If the objective was just to arrive on the other side, would the singularity entangle all major limbs so they fit snuggly in straighter jackets? 

Light was wholly ignored but it where the attention was most focused, uninterrupted and beaming. 

What started as white ends up in yellow rags soaked in red, conveniently repellent toward saltwater and fibrously repulsed by solid matter, like tables and chairs, ribs and eyelids. 

The reception was about to begin. 

Now the objective shapes can carry all the notes too heavy to float along in sound, like the word that arose from thought which sought its utter meaning but made no point when given volume to pierce.

Black holes were better for collecting thoughts and compressing them into rays of hope often mistaken for solar flares. 

Image credit By Smithsonian Institution from United States, 'Centaurus, A Jet Power and Black hole-Chandra image (X-rays)' [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Forge a head

How little should be let out as to not drown out their dreams, how many drops do not dilute the concentration of their pungent magic that lives only on fresh air and new seasons, tiny eternities in which every-which-way is a fractal blossoming out of potentialities…it seems any rational and metallic words, like screws unthread, useless, may interrupt, suffocate and sever the boundless expanse of the plane, the stretching possibility of entanglement or the greatest good reverberating out from where hearts have shattered and self-heal with the thick paste of time and enlightening the way out or by exhaling

Desires settle into embers before giving into coals where some semblance of rationing will be met and meted out for others to consume as heat. Hands up, palms and face forward, the extremities tingle in the charged air

Where silence is golden

And gold retains its heat, resistant to rust and nonconductive.

Worth less

Than never. 


Painting By Airy, Anna, 1918 The "I" Press Forging, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Inheritance

Even though I have sacrificed the most I can muster without giving everything I have not got and then some, the result is not a real number, the answer, the sentence does not equal a positive or whole but a fraction to make sense or solve the problem-a new symbol or operator is needed, the characters caused the result.

I owe my children an apology. The kinks in the chain, the taut metal streaked with broken veins were my breaking. I chose their father to take me away from my misplaced misery, and like wise he chose me for his own miseries. Regardless, it made the same result, where the positives stand apart and refuse to coagulate or assimilate and the largest numbers stay on top just out of reach. I subtracted their fathers negative charge and was left with less than the x-axis for a lifeline. My parents, their grandparents did not choose me, nor I them, the result was the same, which is starting at zero, fortunate for the conditions that allowed everything to grow from nothing

I could do about it, their journey parallels mine for a time, they look over at me and gauge my speed, mimic my mannerisms and say they have found a way to live without the negative signs.

I have added much love to carry the ones, the remainders will end up rounded in and dropped off in soft loose links that indicate assembly will reach further, anchors will keep us in place, and Moonrakers, like the seine net, will make more Stardust than the galleons will float.

When the tide goes out we forget where the highest waterline once stained the sand,

but we have a feeling it will rise again, take the sand from our soles and float the rest.  


Painting by Nicolas Poussin, c. 1628 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Lost the Alamos

“These are complex technical things, but they touch on the very basis of our morality. It is a grave danger for us that these decisions are taken on the basis of facts held secret.”

This was said on February 12^th in 1950 by a man addressing the President of America's wife, Eleanor on her Sunday morning television broadcast. 

This man with all the answers, knew best how to keep secrets. Top secret and under hat and he let those secrets bounce around in his radioactive being until the corrosion became more than the structure. Settling within him and festering around like a cloud, it seems he could come and go with omniscience. He was brilliant to all could not look at him directly in the eyes. Those that could take it knew he could have been brighter, more welcoming in the desolation of night, they were embedded in that sky under the same forces. So scared, some thought his yellow fingered trembling was evidence of this, that he need always clutch his own personal fire; via a wand or crutch, incessantly forcing his fingertip to take the flames off the cherries, he knew he was trying to make it numb. It was only a start, he never thought about the end before he lost where he was going and went instead with the wind and waves, swallowed and sunk safely away from the American Dream. off the Virgin Islands, he is perpetually pulled and pushed by waves of saints and martyrs. The legacy is nearly forgotten. Finally, there was none left awake to do the tactile work, like making bombs that would forever change the world. He holds his breath I fathom. 

Photo credit By Federal government of the United States [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Trinity sight post test (Jumbo, July 1945).

Gatherer

While you are here, make yourself useful. Instead of leaving no footprints or blazing trails, in place of rooms stacked with forgotten props for making memories and treasuring trivialities of these in trinkets and symbols of some emotion we once had while collecting bones and relics for hanging in closets just in case of a storm. Rather, you could pick up what I have lain down before, it was already here and waiting like this red carpet for barren feet in which you may tip toe so softly so that none notice the shift in shag or bulging pile, the insistence of your presence, the red of your wait makes the earth feel like home for a time.
With you staying longer and nearer, it has made a lasting impression to run fingers over and collect the tips of things to make sense of the things we may feel, like more than necessary for one. 

By Kuroda Seiki (1866-1924) (http://bunka.nii.ac.jp/heritages/detail/252689) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Fools Rules

Things have changed. 

As usual, kids these days, they say, incapable of paying attention to only one thing at one time.

They cannot afford to be bored, the kids will claim this while earning lack of interest and learning to invest in installments by bits or bytes of feed and data to collate and parse or peruse ever to gently over the surface, present without touching a thing but reaching further than conception can fly by rail, by plane or Falcon 9. 

And the whole time they were growing taller and able to see over the heads of past generations,

often not understanding the foreign language they use to say how big and strange the kids have become. 

The untranslatable said to be familial if not familiar cuts the tongue and distance is breathing

room. 

Some rules apply to all tight circles.

These are not rules.

Conflict creates sparks. To kindle this is Choice. Paper or plastic. Cash or credit. Fruit or Vegetable.

Man ate the apple.

We should all agree, unanimously, to treat each other with Great and Grand curiosity, instead of the horror and heart racing fear of the past passed at the speed of light, a code they will crack well after we can look back and say progress is not a lifeline or any linear conception that stretches generations.

Of course, the kids thought the adults were obedient and simple.

Always being right of something that has no sides or edges but event horizons, similar to virtual reality or alternate avatars of us which shows that only perception is infinite and limited unless you can learn to balance both ‘i’’s and juggle while focusing on more than five to seven things which may mean the multiverse is possible, or probable in a world where rings carry truth into black holes.

Poor us that shrunk while the everything expanded, who could no longer reach the ends and make connections in the dark by feeling our way around things and knowing what they may be one at a time, intimately aware of all the potential items and uses, like a life and what one should use it for.

And yet the youth always thrives because they are soft enough to adapt and keen to collect the sharpest tools that came before them and eager to learn how it was done with bright eyes that see better ways.

And yet the adults still call them fools.

Women covered up.

There are no definitions of circles that end. 

There is always room for growth. This much won't change. 

There are no rules for making lifelines with what was found.

The minerals line and build up with the bodies both old and new. 

It was only different from this view

Photo of The Atwater family, from archives by unknown, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Fire

Burning…does that spark any distinct memory as in location, stimuli, an inkling? Burning, as in unstable state, seethe with what it means to turn matter into smoky air, burnt bridges but cremation and incarnation of time and place, thermomagnetic transportation perhaps it was never there in the ashes or stars carried away in heat waves. A ray of sun then magnetized on top of the red dirt, bark dances low and white in motes on the trail before me, nymphs and fireflies and feel always lead to castles and sweet escape of now, smolder and embering to meet me another way. 


Painting by Philippe de Champaigne (c.1645-1650) in  [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Water-Aqua Vita

As if we could withstand the curiosity, in fact, this is how it all began, not with fire as men may say. This terraqueous planet describes us, shapes us, prepares our moods, reflects feelings in water with rainy days, and on hot days it seethes to the surface. A love-hate. The odorless, tasteless, colorless, rainbow making substance making up most of what we see, including our own body, its secrets hidden behind surfaces sometimes called skins and in reflections that can be blinding. Tears may escape this wrath, you salivate, you sweat, there are many ways out, but we all know thirst in a more intimate way. Why does the river run or meander? Where is it going so unstoppably. The sea, you say. Yes. I guess these tides too taunt sameness, require membership, seeks its own kind, mutual matters. The tides taunt us relentlessly, love-hate, push-pull-sun-moon, always churn so you know it is breathing, there is life in there, resistance and persistence. Trapped as we may be in our bodies that need, trapped like ants on our hills and screaming about wills that fall on deaf ears, we still climb, we crawl, claiming to know where we are going on our islands by push-pull-time of day-we know ice when we see it, we see cold water steam, hot water vapors, and boil and evaporate and condense and it all boils down to the one scientific question-whose is it, not Prometheus, not ours to steal, it was all part of it, it needed the other matters to matter the most. Water is life always returning to become part of another body, just like we, genetically.

By Moran, Thomas, 1837-1926 (artist); L. Prang & Co. (publisher) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Earth-ling

Pleasant, soothing at it sounds seemingly to some, Mother Earth may be a callous symbol to Others.

For arguments sake, if this Mother is no longer responsible for her children-

Then why do we need to claim

Heritage, Hierarchy, Habituation, Home

By relation-dirt don't hurt no

Ship of Fools

as if entitlement and document were worth trading or grinding down.

Apes with tools erected schools of thought, others say Respect your Elders even if given shorter straws.

Piles and miles we move dirt as if we made it matter more, who is keeping score, who cares who matters

Who dares to entertain the road, let the line lay and bears all the load, but no resemblance-to us,

She is the soul maker of Beauty. 


Painting by Herbert James Draper [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Air

Noble Highness, Princess Ayre,

I see you up there-everywhere I stare down the atoms,

                                                 showing off your prowess with your plumage.

Spreading the skies with talon,

                                                  a parting breeze-Please-you dance as if the world

were watching,                                                your silhouette in spritely gambols.

without a word

Still as Summers Eve,

Avian apparatus                                       demonstrating what stirring is

and how                we should                    exhale in murmurations

                             after swallowing  

the heavens whole-                                and absolve the tears from rain.

Following your advice to Look up I have been mistaken for preying again and again.     




Artwork by Nicolaes Piemont [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.   

Blue Study

I think you know the familiar kind of-- sick of yourself --each swallow tastes like a glob of chunky chartreuse, you feel disgusted, dirty inside and nauseous unable to sit still and so you try to clean but realize after your hands are raw from chemicals and red from pressure that it is futile, so you think you should read for a little while, you think perhaps you have been busying and stretching  the wrong muscles and you could use the preoccupation of the mind, as though it was ever unoccupied or somehow free from little dust devils, a gathering of motes or thoughts that matte the shine, whose raspy murmurings stand on top of the very tracks of thought causing some horn to blare, so you decide to walk away, nearly deaf, you decide to take a hike, chew the view, and out there too, every step, left, right, there, reminds you of you, so you decide to seek Others to preoccupy the eyes, which you see, only reminds you of how you act that stupid human way.

It is like the days you wake up with a thought-most certain, confident and clear that you will remember and capture this crisp epiphany, but before you can even begin your word search or jar finding the temporary file is unrecoverable, contents empty, the pen dry, poof…. As when photons, which add up, yet individually are equally as heavy, contribute to experience and now it is forever out of focus and you decide the pen is too sharp, a gentle brush may work better, colors may even cure the acidic aftertaste, acrylic may do the trick, at least aromatically, or was this only about aesthetics, taste, yes…oil needs water, and I find footprints on the canvas. Somewhere near, a cat walks with blue paws.

The stuff at the bottom, the sediments, dregs and lees, the slag and settled matters, remnants and residue of making, fermentation and processing-were better to spit out on the page than swallowed whole hearted murky dejection, carbonation or abandonment of pursuit with ennui and flat out No Thank You, repetitively dishing disappointment on an uncoated bleached paper plate. Serve yourself please.

Be a spork. Utility has you. Continue to recall. Not all answers end in never. Some rhetoric is right for some, for some rhetorically left alone. Stand over here-in blue and corrected, this is what I red, primarily. 

Painting by Ludvig Karsten [Public domain], The blue kitchen (1913) via Wikimedia Commons.

How to mingle without getting muddy

Explain how the ripple came to be?

Easy.

You were right about one part. The air sleeping atop the crisp sheets, yes linen has always seemed lovely and of comfort. Let us say a semipermeable comforter, we like blanket terms too. The special phenomena, right off the top, is that this form of gentle is incomparable to the world or anything you have never felt. It occurs soundlessly as a culmination of friction, passionate projections opposed, finally finding its apex in a touch, a synchronized demonstration of composure, expect this, it is a normal reaction to momentary chaos.

It is when the air forms solid cubes and stacks together, carving out valleys with detritus shapes and wind with in it, water rises to the challenge and pinches back for measure of dream, getting an atom or nose in between swing and edgewise, push and pull, awake and snap.

An interruption smoother than prophecy, symbiotic as choreography, responses are red and al dance without stepping on toes-

That is how a ripple goes.  

Painting by John William Godward [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

All thumbs

Payne’s grey dried and embedded under my right thumb nail and as obvious as this is, numbers won't help me, my digits deny wrong-doing, I have an alibi.

Porcelain gesso flakes on these forearms pretend this doll skin can peel, I must step out of the light so  may scratch these off, knowing even after all the bleach I was immersed in yesterday, the stains and imperfections all remain as if the function were to remind me of what this is not, mirrors and pixels which explains the impulse to smoke and blur, these gestures sweep and move genres.

Sure I may talk big, but I could never carry out such cruelty as to send my dearest enemies these mirrors, so instead I paint and portray cells, the canvas becomes a loose cage able to contain this heart embedded rage, this one gives me trouble and the door remains ajar.

I am stuck. The cracked glass. The hour stand and black sand that not just trickles down and out but spills upward and around the sides and I no longer am able to get the picture- still defiant and incomplete, I know it could just be me, lost within this painting to be profound, I ponder and fume at the empty reflection knowing it needs some heartbeat, a sign of life somewhere, people, and wall to race against. For now, the background is all sky,

For the life of me, I cannot fathom why? 

Painting by Gerrit Dou (1647) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.