In some distant parts of the galaxy it rains
in quatrains and quaternions restrain themselves
from reciting them at press conferences when
they are pressed for explanations of the past, the mysteries
buried in the fractals of history.
where fortuitous rhapsodies of blistering regret
congeal like blood; as if it hasn’t entered the wound yet.
These fractals of desolation band to form groups of events,
clustering in groups like florets of uncut broccoli destined to
dangle in soups.
The penchant for purview previews indolence:
they should have been photographers those Imagists —
who write about birds, but seek to describe the desolate land
of the parchment with their
Words that come together as history unfolds
To those doomed to repeat the fractal of chance as they
bunch together in herds of self-similar recurrent patterns
of words, melting into the infinity of Zeno
Their fractional dimensions gaze into a mirror of time.
Mountain sides pile along winding country roads
weaving wind through pines and flowers in colors bold.
Mind becomes so, and ventures beyond
what we foretold.
The first time the wind sang its secrets to me
was the night of the full moon and whisper of pine
— incantations of the wind was a new language for me
a feeling of unity where pieces of futility ran circles around me
into fractals of utility.
Now, when cast, a die hovers like a hummingbord to the dancing
of time to stop spinning like an electron, it does know how to stop
and goes round and round just like a top.
But if magic were real there would be no questions —
So let’s stop.
I see the notes on the page take shape and fly
through the branches of newly cut trees.
Translucent musings of capricious care,
seldom dare to go
beyond the debonair
While crafty conspiracies of the Middle Kingdom
cast a conspicuous shadow that was never there.
Linoleum rolls in dreams of stolen Melodies
of forgotten tomorrows…
Will you ever forget the future — even when
it now borrows from the never-distant past?