Cro-Magnon Parasitic Megaspore

Corrupt Neanderthal Nemesis

Life in The Petri Dish

Does it not seem obvious

Sing, muse, of rusty box springs left to moulder in open lots, home to many a Norway rat, hardy and clever, scion of gorgonian, of cynodont, of whiskered Jurassic night hunter now amid a new and numerous batch of diurnal predators, but the game is the same, the por and tor of sighting the star through the lens and living out a flash in this pale cold reality, wondering what is next on the opposite side of it, like a coin unable to visualize its other face, staring down at concrete pavement rather than up at the coiny heavens.

I remember heavens like that, muse, their bindings fallen to shreds, pictures of nebulae strewn all over the living room floor, places with names like the Perseus cluster, and Cygnus, and now the astronomers among us, these new diurnal predators, have found a great wall of galaxies out there.  Does it not seem obvious that the universe is indeed infinite, perversely so, such that this exact scene, typewriter and droning mechanical white noise, is perpetrated not in one other place this exact moment, but in any number of repetitions, with such a cloud of noise around each one that the series of almost typists, banging out almost passages on almost worlds is an insane jumble, but only the merest edge of that jumble might cross within the space of two galaxies from here..a lobopod in triangulum scratches out a smell message in radio and wire, broadcasting it to a world of plastic lined burrows and warm sultry caverns for this methane breather, same as here, asking about that other surface of the membrane..

..a dishsoap bubble, perhaps to think of it as having two surfaces is to ask too much, but i always wonder about those negative numbers, those solarized photographs, and i suppose that is enough for now.

January

winter

it has been window plastic season for a while now, and a new season has cropped up within the old one.  this is the season when you have to leave your water running slowly at night so that the pipes do not freeze.  ages past, in 1996, I remember this strange season.  it was lost to the climate here for a very long time, and now it is back.  the usual white mantle of clouds and heavy cloak of city snow abounds here.  it is Rodinia, Columbia, Gondwana, Laurentia, Greenland, Antarctica, every continent lost to glaciers, the albedo of the ice reflecting away any chance of a spring thaw.  it was coming before we  postponed it, the next ice age.

This is worth reading

http://www.randi.org/site/index.php/swift-blog/348-gnome-hunters.html

It's true, I think.  Gnomes hate math.  It never occurred to me to use my calculator to find gnomes, but I think I will try it.

maybe I can get a TV show.

a

Dear Ruby

Dear Ruby,

  I write these, sometimes, because I know an occasional letter from the past is very welcome.  My old poetry, mostly, those slices of would-be-brilliance, shines like crap on a morning lawn, but an occasional diary entry from the past, a reminder of that person I once was, that stranger that made so many decisions I live with today, is a nugget in the dark, so to speak.  Love you, baby.