It is more than having my hand on bricks.
Being all over these walls;
Or the simple hardness if their fabric.
And by loosing skin through frantic rubbings,
I gain a touch of their hearth and home.
Let there be Life.
Nor is it just this wind in my lungs and
This rhythmic beat that proves to me
That I am alive.
But the chill of the Act in the words, Good Bye.
It is tangent to my elation
This tinkering with time.
Within my ordinary pulse
I have the glue of my sticky ways.
And I make limit of such too
By these, my slippery words;
Words with which to embroider
Tide and the beat of time
Weighs heavy on each,
And neither waits for any,
And all the way down this hellish bank,
We are limited in scope
By our standard jolts.
And we pinball through time,
And the luckless wither on the vine.
Yet love is Bourne to us
On the wind to our senses.
It is like a hands touch upon the body
Or the torch of the organ of our lineage.
There is no gender to the window
Or the ordering of time.
Or the events before the cradle
Of evidence over time.
This is where the three fingered poets of science
Describe cosmic inflationary particles.
From Theatrum Orbis Terrarum to the Event Horizontal,
From the pre-previous
To the post posthumous and so forth
Then onward to the equalilateral,
Self fulfilling, self prophecying;
Equation Of Proposterous Futility.
© 2018 Christopher Thompson