GALAXY FROM HARBOR
Slow and remarkably in our telescopes their shores and shattered ship wood, distant dinners in their things. Civilizations under bolides, swinging dusks sensitive and nictant. Diffuse tableaux atomized and dropped at our knees, collimated by our ponds, cast into paths of Chevy, shaken through eyelashes of drivers, drained and slow reflections of their huge and boring cities.
A galaxy is a union of secants. Reticulated, fibrous quantities of dusts in splayed radial variation, bauxites and barns earlier strewn over firmamental basements, nuts of light titubating into orchards of gas, luminal slurry, wet nebulae squeezed with eyes, crackling of matter on their hills, varieties of dwelling, integumenta, little jackets maybe of exoskeleton their workings wear.
The impact everywhere. Schizogenesis of asteroids. Ablating and shattered aerolites. Sprays of iridescent minerals fanning into atmospheres. Divots appearing on hills, valleys spatchcocked by rivers, an astounding movements of pollens, their trifling swirls on aluminous rocks ocherous and pallid, arboreal rodents on nice town fences, the particulars of collisions, the racks, pawls, and splines of vehicles unpinned by impact and twirled through cold roadscapes, bogs and their deceptive surfaces, the salt on the edges of woody regions, half-comprehended marine objects, filthy stripes in the auroral sky, petroleum infused dews in traffic dense areas. This is morning. Or a morning. Each day with unique quality and smell. They don't repeat. We love the pattern and are surprised by the particulars. The idea of day repeats. The days do not. Their children also the remnants of an explosion.
These are disasters of the brittle we call years. Calendars thickened with silicates and stones and rubble, regolith, soil, the shaken atmospheres, lipids, particulates and sands awash on spheres and sluiced into periapses, slung then in ellipses before burning wigs falling through clouds of ethane. It is welts, the smelling of ore in tears, texture of seashore days, the most delicate translucence in snot, the deposits and other small greases of crying. We smell the sea in a sneeze, the cooking and indrawing of matter, scent of lutites in estuaries and their carbolics of decay, the salty exterior of rocks and old smells of smoke, the days all behind us shut as gates, the ashes from under the floors of all previous worlds and several times our own world has been lifted to a shining spew of broken accoutrements and spread into a calm sheet of unwinding animals and trash, a gum of objects collected in a cloud, the sad elixir fallen earthward and jammed even into the slits of trees and sunk in swamps with all the other sour remnants of old suns.
Those fuckers build also on a fog of interior particles, are themselves reduced in frustration to a usage of collapsed materials, salvaged, repurposed polymers, building with the infolded and sloshing, their muds dried and buckled in their hills, pectolitic cliffs soaring in weird atmospheres, maybe watch other planets shaving their suns, cataclastic motions stowed in the blown stones, hanging sheets of sands, moon sized collections of smeared protein, these tangled chandeliers snarled by orbit, lucent cowlicks, the centers of our telescopes spattered with shining eyebrows frozen and crisp bits of light hanging in scarred microscopic deeps, paramecia, rotifers, burst luminal beards, these flecks of coiling fungus and spewing roads of electricities fitted together in burning foams, under which they build in their swollen scales, pocked by cartilaginous filaments and ranging coffles of gaseous metal, through machines maybe made with vaulted tissues of hanging minerals, they also certainly, in these sprawling disasters of the brittle, build in a foundation of disease.
TYPO
29
|