Fresh Poetry: Crossing Siberia

This bi-product of consciousness
We never chose to be conscious

This plague of the human race
We had to lose immunity

-DETOUR-

This artificial silence
Fighting no-noise with white noise
Fighting noise with artificial deafness

This finality
The culmination of each joy
The inescapable bedrock
Reality abstracted to its end

This dot
And territory
Shallow fence
Stiff hips
Short breath

-SEMI-DETOUR-

This formless dot
Sometimes point sometimes string
Elementary
Pointless

-DETOUR-

We migrate on ice
Beyond the tips of Siberia there is a lure of sun
We know intuitively it’s going to be warm
A Shangrila of creatures, and we’re one
We love the sun with our instinct
We grow peas and peaches
We cook flesh and eat flesh
And become human, Ha-Ha.

Are we conscious?

We love the sun without instinct
This is no longer the country of the midnight sun
The demons must have eaten it
And they grow our crops
And they cook our flesh

We almost,
Almost become human


-U-TURN-

Between Siberia and Cyberia there must have been some time
I swallow Vitamin pills for I have no crops
I swallow protein shakes for I almost had enough of dead flesh
I swallow words for I don’t have convictions

I apply something like logic for I know no universals
I apply hydrating creams for I live beyond twenty five

I am conscious therefore I am still human
I am conscious therefore I am bored.

-POSTSCRIPT-

I almost killed it
What a faint gladiator on cheap steroids I am
This transitory death
Boredom re-incarnates.

The Fireworks Song

I need fireworks, made of molecules of air
that leave a sillage of oxygen trailing behind.

I need fireworks, made of volcanic lava
that rejuvenates the soil it burns and leaves stretch marks for future generations.

I need fireworks, because the night sky can use them for show, and because the day leaves behind a trail of silence, I get sleepy, and my eyelids flap by default.

I need them self-propagating and incandescent. I need them to defy determinism, transcend free will, and rejoice in quantum uncertainty.

I want them to travel the night sky downwards and fall onto my laps. I want to carry their burnt powders, take them to the Ganga, make dust castles out of them, perform ceremonial rituals of death, splash them among bathing Babas, shrug my shoulders to their thought I’m crazy, and celebrate birth.

I want to run after them as they travel the river, jump into the sea where they merge, and pretend I’m catching them one after the other. Until the sea waters laugh at me, until they too think I’m crazy. I will laugh along. In delirium.