Monday, January 4, 2010
An Inky Ooze
The moon cries teardrops of blood
as a foreboding gloaming encroaches -
its shadow-finger injecting an inky ooze
onto the sky-blotter. A zillion catapulting
electromagnetic fields etch invisible arcs
across the motionless vortex, skidding
and careening like billiard balls shot
apart by the break. No cue stick lies
nearby, evidencing a lack of prescience.
If you drop a pebble into a pond
you'll see patterns expressed in ripples,
though not through the design of your
intelligence. All apparent sequence, order
and plan in a universe with a single
common denominator - infinite
expression - arise like mental figs,
the fruit of the perceiving imagination.
Every electromagnetic field emanates
a unique perspective. No imagined
perception of order agrees with any other.
All deductions are equally true and false.
Tears of blood flow because we kill each
other over our disagreements in deductions.
Patterns only arise in response
to the parameters of hypotheses.
What you see is what you get
because it's what you expect.
Each individual reality looms
into view as a mirror's reflection.
As the moon's shadow-finger injects
its ink ooze into the sky-blotter, people
spread an inky ooze on it, too,
butter-knifing the air, land and sea
with the excrement of Jonestown.