SUPERSYMMETRICAL FLUCTUATIONS IN MY GOD PARTICLE FIELD
Supersymmetrical fluctuations in my God particle field
are oxymoronically balancing my asymmetrical
quantum mechanical relationship between matter
and antimatter into sacred syllables of sibilant sparticles
so I can go on living substantively losing my balance
by creatively annihilating myself against a background
of perfect harmony. Is it love? Is it poetry? Is it
the amorphous music of becoming someone mystically specific
with mass throwing its weight on the side of my humanity
by loading the dice with one eye more than the perfection
of my non-existence knows what to do with,
or is everybody playing the part of an extra in their own life?
Languid apples of knowledge dancing naked
to the wavelengths of snakes playing moonlight sonatas
on the plectra of their pentatonic scales as if my photons and photinos
were all blissed out by Liszt. It’s as hard listening to a painting
that doesn’t know how to sing, as it is to see
how an omniscient secret could hide from itself
until it wished to be known. But as every dragon intuits
it’s not an elixir if you’ve got a formula for it,
and when the universe wants to speak if it isn’t
talking to itself in its sleep, or trying to come up
with a poem or an equation to fit all occasions
like a unified field theory with a burning bush
for a voice box addressing an indentured prophet
in a desert gully, pleading his brother’s superior eloquence,
it’s mourning the ashes of books that were burnt at the stake
for interrupting the silence. It’s harder to break the rules
after you’re dead than it is to discipline your disobedience
to the greater challenges of rising from Pandora’s box
to the greater miscreance of not surrendering
your insights into life like real stars refusing
to give up shining for the sake of a false dawn
the roosters and the wildflowers aren’t paying any attention to.
The flower bows to the butterfly. The shadow
enshrines the sundial and the star reveres the eye
as a child of its own. Nothing could be clearer than that.
The opposite of mindlessness isn’t the death of intelligence.
And the complement to love has never been hate.
Hate wastes too much energy underwhelming
its own inspirations like a pornographer
with a home movie camera, starring himself.
A swerve of the God particle and love
one in seven times has no opposite to collide with
just to keep a preponderance of creativity in the world.
And the rest is just nemetic lust out for a good time.
Everytime you whine for a muse to help you celebrate
this little potsherd of eternity that keeps turning thumbs down
like an ostrakon at your exile, you shame the Big Bang
into believing that she wasn’t muse enough to keep you occupied
over the last 13.5 billion lightyears of your lifespan.
But I would tender, respectfully, of course, it’s not the world
but you that have lost your charisma. Your shabby sense of wonder
is wasted on a face like that, and your tongue talks
like an old shoe that’s never wandered very far from home.
Enlarge yourself like a plenipotentiary paradigm
your children will be able to look up to like a constellation
that refused to stay within bounds but coloured outside
its fifteen degrees of separation in a sexigesimal zodiac.
Reverse the spin on your mirrors once and awhile
and take a good look at yourself on the inside as if
you weren’t trying to build an empire founded upon
the quicksand of somebody’s else’s miracles. Who doesn’t
love dancing with the Persian silks of the aurora borealis
their flesh shapeshifting like lamias and snakes under their veils,
cyanotically blue moodrings turning the pallor of death
into the irises of a chameleon that’s learned how to paint
a supernaturally toned oil of whatever comes before it?
Do you see how enlightening it is to turn
the high-livers on the catwalks out in the street in homespun?
Get back to the the roots of things like the radical
you’ve always told yourself you were from the late sixties on?
If you’re not worthy of the madness, how can you reasonably
expect to live up to being sane? Nothing worse
than a careerist with the ambitions
of a prophetic skull in an asylum
trying to listen in on cosmic office gossip
like the afterbirth in the background hiss of the universe.
Come withering, come fire, come hungry flames of desire
that will apocalyptically transmogrify your limbs into a great forest
consumed by lightning into a flash of insight
that knows enough about annihilation not to light
a match in a black hole that’s teaching you how to see in the dark,
or, more recuperatively creative, resilvering,
as the progenitive dew of the moon was once reputed to do,
or moonlight on the Byzantine leaves of the metallic Russian olives,
parabolic mirrors with an aquiline view of the stars.
Get ready for this. It’s approaching as if it were already
behind you like the light you see from Al Tair tonight
is merely the shadow of what it’s becoming without you
knowing anything about it like a surprise birthday party
that doesn’t leave your tears singing in the rain among
the myth floods of Babylon crying out like uterine waters
breaking all around you for arks to lullaby your cradles
of civilization on a Turkish mountaintop that’s about
to put its forehead to the ground in an avalanche
of asteroids and shepherd moons surrendering
to their foundation stones like an unmastered ship
going down in its oceanic awareness of the Pleiades,
or a humbled man, who realizes belatedly,
at the drop of a heart, the mermaids were always
singing to him as if he could swim without taking lessons.