Constellations of Want

Sustain yourself with the
clean-smelling petals
as they wrap themselves into the night,
scratching the starry horizon
into constellations of want.

I don't want to see forever, that's absurd, so:
allow for a thick mist to settle,
as if on schedule, a melted snowcap in mind
now turned into a wall of fog
to hide behind when the extroverts
come to steal my energy.

Reliant now on the tingling
sense of the moon,
I need it to predict my tides.
The interconnected muscles
in my chest float flashing moonlit bursts of
my breath into the heavy spring air.

I don't think I have hallucinated
this street,
this sidewalk,
this hill,
those trees,
this comforting fog,
but I have the strange sense
I could have created them
in the moment just before waking
to allow for a walk into the introverted night.

Alone, Again

Haman: “In the time it took for me to write this first sentence, everyone we know on Earth forgot about us.”

Remardu: “already God is calling to us”

Elund: “Yeah, yeah. Maybe your god is out here, maybe not. But what a ride!”

Only three of us chose to mark the millions of days, taking brief watches awake in slow motion, trading off tiny messages to each other through the limited bandwidth. The tiny ship could not carry more than one mind awake, loaded down with all it could handle, on the long traversal.

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Growth Mindset

backfire effect:
a giant orange fireball sun’s
streaming from the authoritarians;
hindsight bias
our hopeful hopeless songs of
continued influence.
to keep us off balance, they are always
clustering illusion
and hurling threats from
walled gardens.
prepare the plebeian
hive mind
to engage full
confirmation bias,
strap the tanks and fill ’em with
our tribe rides tonight, us versus them,
the ultimate attribution error.


Like Fungus

Spores, light in the wind
  float down as thoughts from preaching streets
Soft beds of literary devices
  lay my head on scratched-out lines while
Delete key always
  calls to me, siren song of perfect backtracking
The words edge out,
  sneaking into the world despite my itchy
Pinky finger.
Take root, and then:
Vascular tendrils, flowing ferns
  launch new words in percussive volleys
Unmanned drone assault on senses;
  senseless resting place for untongued splendors
Create cloth green with
  woven spirals, unfurling outlands,
Connected mind to forest floor,
  the roots a map, the result only
Part of what is written.


Across from the blackened stacks
A green gray openness sounds
Echoes of ancient water
Echoes of ancient rust
Fungal layers over the rocks
Do not deceive perception
Only color it
With the peaceful blue to black
Of rising night



Molecules, roll out
into your formations
led by that trumpet
in a strange beautiful war of
 intricate shapes and dances.
I do not mean to implay that
 war has the beauty of dance,
 just that
this dance has the character of
an unending battle,
intriguing but wearying,
fanciful yet harshly sobering,
with every now and again
 a glimmer of sheer mad magic.
It grips us, for yes, clearly, we
 are but a random cannon shot
 launched in this chaos.
Molecules, send out
your hints and judges
led by that trumpet
of timeless law that defines this
battle, our struggle to know that which
 cannot be known,
 our struggle to free ourselves
from this dance which is the source
of our existence, our struggle to
ignore the trumpet, our struggle to
be something other than we are:
molecules, colliding