TuesdayJan 27, 2026
Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969
Okay, I'm sorry I don't write poems about sunsets and nature and mystical experiences, I only know what I know; I could write that the sight of a sunset lit up my mind like Light Brite and I was enlightened, or that the sun and moon are my mother and father; but I can't I can only write with any semblance of truth about what contains my simple frame of reference.
People. I knew some of them, but not now. On the moon, I wander among the many pot holes. Their shadows make me feel planet-stricken. Display model #1: Clusters of magnetic liquids. I would like to uncover the mystery of the scrim. Will I rise to the occasion when it decides to fall by? A tiny walled-off angel lays an egg. A secret life-the ruminations of a creature that walks without legs, eats without a mouth, breathes without lungs, feels without nerves, then divides and conquers. What happens when you try to squeeze a puddle of gravity in your hand? It dissolves into hundreds of silver eggs. Me too. The incubation period was over. Display model #2: People backed up into a dark corner. Unearthed puzzle, the same the moon all over. Next stage? Parachute, the final explanation arising as I make my slow descent.
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