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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Sure doc, yeah,
I’m ready.
Nope, I could
barely feel
the needle!

Drifting off
feels so weird,
I’m gonna
try hard to

Whoa so that’s
what my guts
look like on
the inside,
huh? Shiny!

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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


No form can hold
  the last apostle of a
    never-living messiah.
Breach and blow the stale air,
  a fountain of new promise;
The droplets can assemble
  into any form:
    even no form.
Your humped back seems to outgrow
  this feeble cold ocean;
    or maybe you switch
  and take its icy ripples for
    your new blood;
      your new form.
Trees lining the shore are new teeth;
  rocks, the new barnacled skin.
    Breath is so shallow now
  You cannot feel it,
    but maybe
  form is breath.
You are not whale, shore,
  vast ocean, air, culture,
    mountain, mind, or
      valley between.