A Thousand Suns Burst Like Popcorn in a Pitch Black Pot
I’ve been thinking too long in poetry;
I’m losing terms and math and even
spelling (garuntee yesterday,
today studenst, looked right).
Talking, even tlaking. Hear this:
“Dark matter, like, the center or pre—
perimeter, I saw on Not Geo, oh,
Nat Geo, the dawn of time…”
So let’s dump all this and go there;
where consonants were dwarves all
imploding in symphonic unison. Let’s
diagram the Big Bang:
See how useful that is? All the mysteries
of the universe revealed by isolating
noun phrases. Otherwise, like pitch
in a black pot popcorn burst
a thousand suns.
and what good is that to science?
I need more sleep, or gingko biloba.
Less coffee and sugar, more sex and
reading glasses. Anything to turn these
sprockets and lenses, align the sight
and ventilate, flip the gravity back
on these swarms of random grammar,
jettison the semantically barren fillers,
latch the hatches and
fix the world.
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