At the center there are monsters, invisible, beyond the reach of everything, where light becomes dark. Hypocycloidal shapes surround the surface, along the edges of a chase that never ends. The pursuit pays a price, but a price at what cost, and to what possible end? How much is this one worth? Or that one?
“The hate of men will pass when dictators die and we possess their power.”
The power of the masses, flowing into form, a single power-mass far flung into the center where the monsters roam in shadow.
“Relax. Let it flow. You are the creator.”
“Is this real? Or just a ride?”
“Whatever you think it is, you can change it anytime. Don‘t be afraid.”
I hold my finger to the moon. I fix my gaze until the finger disappears. The ground begins to quake. Vertical potential surpasses downward pull, and I begin to fly.
Projections of a shadow world, inventions of morning light, breathed in, breathed out, footprints on worlds of oceans with fifteen billion suns. Stretched out, rolled up, ripped apart, and weather-worn; spaces of matter and twisted time, between two verses and ion shifts. The key to everything, a single photon, particles of energy turned into mass.
What is real there, really?
The mind sees, the brain detects; stimulations and time-dependent waves. An effect of cause, a focus, from one to two and on and on.
Recognizing, we see. Seeing, we believe. Touching, we feel. Thresholds surpassed, reset, surpassed again. The key to everything is nothing.
“What do you see?”
“The image of a face, a moment, the things you see?”
The palm of the hand, inside out, energy and time; the faster we go, the bigger we become, until we become all at once the zero and the one.
To be American is a frightful awful thing. It is the opposite of meaning.
Meaning, the direction of unified factors, a square, a trapezoid, shadows of the fifth dimension. A life devoid of panache, the eagle above the cloud. Lateral pressures in a raging stream, debts in torrents, drowning men.
Kids. Children. Young men. The procession of ages stops and staggers and races past.
The last day of summer. Pick-up games at the Pony League. Afternoons of clouds and eagles and my dad’s ‘62 Chevy.
“You ever think about the future?” I asked aloud.
“Nah,” they answered. And I agreed.
The light of the world was polarized.
How could we see the world at forty-five degrees? We knew nothing but the days in the sun, dauntless days of chasing geese on the lake and shagging flies in the dirt, days in quarter arcades, sweet taffy, grilled burgers, and eight millimeter film; days in the clouds and nights in the stars; days of stolen centerfolds and copping feels; days without end, dying embers and dreams of youth.
We piled into cars and raced the block. The block, the square, a flat plain in planar space. Locality intertwined. Leaves fell, clouds burst, we huddled behind bleachers, trading cards for ancillary light.
The grounded state. The end of everything and the beginning of nothing. Days of summer into Fall. What would we do, when the square became the cube? Where would we be? Who would we love? Would we still play ball? Would we still race cars? Would diffusion of perspectives correlate our distances and time?
In the end, there was nothing. We were sucked into the cube, its entanglements paradoxical and dark. The eagle skimmed the clouds. The books became our games, and flies changed into ladders.
“I want to play here when we’re fifty,” I said, teasing my words with fingertips as they slipped beyond the light.
“I sure hope so,” they replied, words drifting into night, the upper slit of continuity where dreams of children dissociate and die.
I reversed my baseball cap, stretched out my arms at ninety degrees, and closed my eyes. Particles and waves surrounded my senses, backwards moving and incoherent, adrift in seas of light, discontinuous and irreversible, intuitive and non-distinct. Unbound, I disappeared, a distinct memory through time, where time and distance were the same.
Quantized particles permeate like bursts of super-charged plasma.
Fluctuations of time ripple like narrow slits in diffused matter.
Four forces converge like rain in empty space. And I, the mass-less part of me, feeling pain, increase the causal threshold by a square.
Red, anti-red, blue and anti-blue… these are the colors of my mass-less self.