In a Forest of Hair

It is

Within the polluted forest of hair

On the giant’s head

Two sides fight

They are

Small creatures

Flying

With wings

Like leather

Teeth sharp and wicked

Intentions maligned

Focused

As

Oblivious is their host

They gather

His essence

To live

To war against each other

Untill

The End

 


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Art:

hill giant

by furman


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Quantum Mechanics

Some guess

None know

The math of me

Is the mystery of you

The potential substructure

The comprehensive sweep

The Universal

Definition

Of

being

Of

Nonexistence

Of

Oblivion

We own the

Beginning

And the

End

But not the between

The system of chemicals and reactions

Ruled by responsibility

So

Why cry

At birth

Why cry

At death

Those are the easy parts

Troubled only by

these questions

Of Why

And who

And Maybe

The answer is easy

Just too small

To see

A Storm

Humidity

Like hell on the skin

A storm is coming

Sky turns black

Streaked

With white lightening

Filled

With angry gales.

Frightened

Squawk of seagulls

Abates

And so

The slow wash

Of the water

Lapping up onto the beach

Becomes urgent

This is nothing

To

Worry

About

Though

Storms happen

Because

It is

July

Today

Yesterday

Tomorrow

 

wish

Caley Macstrom

wakes

she stretches 

then wishes

and

has a different life

Nothing

Nothing.

From nothing

From nothing to blackness.

From nothing to blackness to the beginning.

From nothing to blackness to the beginning to something

From nothing to blackness to the beginning to something to more

From nothing to blackness to the beginning to something to more to anything

From nothing to blackness to the beginning to something to more to anything to me

From absolute nothing. Not a blackness. Not an anything. Nothing. Cannot recall. Cannot recall. Cannot recall. Beyond nothing. Beyond birth to knowing nothing to birth to infinite possibilities. Cannot fathom the blackness of nothing. Cannot write the nothing. Cannot repeat the nothing. The nothing is crushing potential.

Elvis Died

Or did he

Some rumor he became a Truck driver out of Bozeman, Montana

others suggest he’s a short order cook in Amarillo, Texas

Both might be right

Both might be wrong

Some say he might live forever

Others argue he was never born

I like to think the mystery is better then any reality

And hope the truth never comes out

A Momentary Snowflake

It’s in this small moment that a universe exists

A simple creation

A flake of ice

It falls with glory from the sky as everything

Is and in a flash

Gone

Seeping into the fabric of a wool jacket like it never existed at all

The Universe

The universe lives.

It feels every thing from the blackest of dark matter to the smallest speck of mold. Life is life.

It changes and stretches and morphs dependent only on the stimulus around.

The range is thin but the range of living things to fit with the billions of niches can run into the infinite.

Creatures huge and small.

Enormous and microscopic.

Sentient and not.

Aware of their soul and just fodder for a conception equation.

Offspring. Children. Parental responsibility. The very nature of existence is male/female. Fitting and holding. The ying sheltering the yang. The man and woman.

Nothing is ever wasted. Garbage thrown out is fuel in somewhere else.

The universe is patient.

Waiting.

The motions that set it off a mystery.

The universe is a Rube Goldberg machine of nonsensical accidents.

A pinball machine with no pongs to hit the ball or have any control.

Time is an infinite loop. One end is another beginning. An end doesn’t even have to be noticed for trillions of years. But the clump of ice strewn out from one explosion will become involved with something eventually.

Time is on the side of happenstance.