It must be nice to be the wind, they say,
with longing and jealousy.
Not the wind, I say.
A leaf, maybe.
Because the wind has control,
whereas I feel hurled
from the safety of
the tree;
eaten and digested
by cold machines;
golden, sure
but weathered by
a march of seasons
that has no regard for me.
mighty island god is he, jovial and festive deity,
patron saint of beer, decadence and revelry!
I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. It never occurred to me that women like to hear you say those things.
i am awake, for the first time in eons.
i am awake, but the dream never fades.
yes, I am under assault
by the effervescent phalanx
of alcohol, yet
I will shut off the light for you.
I will guarantee your safety
and sound sleep.
for I am Eternal Vigilance.
I am the consciousness
that never rests. I am
protectorate, always
wary, always watching,
this is why
I am not the hedonist
others are allowed
to be.
(and believe me,
I wish to be.)
Sleep, now, mirage of the desert,
you hero, you warrior.
Let the watcher
watch, for he is
the best at this,
lest he dream,
lest he know happiness.
i am clutching the continents and
the sweat of oceans clots my forehead
and what i wanted from reality
was only a few pearls,
just a couple of treasures
to rest inside my palm
but they gave me a world
and what might happen
should these shoulders
weaken?
(so, we build now?) yes, we build.
and we will not ask for permission.
(no?) no.
why should anyone apologize
for the natural orchestration of their
synapses? (they sing
on their own, don’t they?)
yes, they do.
(so, we build?) yes, we build,
and strong, so no one can tear
us down.
(so. we build, then.) yes. yes,
we build.
pity this busy monster, manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)
plays with the bigness of his littleness
— electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born — pity poor flesh
and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know
a hopeless case if — listen: there’s a hell
of a good universe next door; let’s go
- e.e. cummings
