Orion's Orchard [Poetic Prose] Dedicated to Brynna Siluk
In the universe, the one that surrounds the world (perhaps the mind as well)—someone once threw a ball—I do believe—somewhere, and it exploded—, somewhat: which slowed everything down a bit, and its thrust (its push, in all directions) is still keeping it airborne: carried by the push that was set in motion (so very long ago); hence, when it loses its momentum, it will crash, I do suppose, and all that is, will be the ball (its substance: what is hanging on to it, in it): that is all that will be left, everything else just: waves, just waves in nothingness what, that one person once made thrust out of; as a result, nothingness and all that it created will come to some kind of a standstill (I repeat)—it has to: for what will carry it? Save, that that someone does not create something else out of some kind of new anything. It’s how it was, how it had to be, how else could it have been: come about to surround the world, with all its t’s crossed, and i’s dotted. We normally don’t think this way, lest we want the mind to become mad.
I heard a voice in this dream of my mind, it said, “I am immortal, I sit behind the suns, and I write epitaphs of all, all the living things, then I open up their lips, an endless task it seems at times: the zenith of life comes from nothingness—and I, I hear their dying wish: to remain, to be something; eyeless faces, that is what you all were once, but by My graces so you became, and they become—more.
Orion’s illumed by my side, showers Me like a rainbow with its gasses, breathless orchard: it is the magnificent mocker of the universe: perhaps you would call it such, perchance: Baudelaire’s fantasy; or Poe’s Twilight; or Clark A. Smith’s perilous deep orchards; George Sterling’s musical images, ghostly lights; Dennis Siluk’s murmur, bemused silence; Ellis’ epigrammatic flight of the imagination. I touch, only touch (lest I destroy my own makings): only touch beyond its burning drums, into the winds of nothingness—what I created it all from. The horse head: it roars like a volcano, a moat around me; the Universe is like a squeezing viper, a sacrificial rip in all the proportions I’ve carved out of the thrust, as you call it, from the push: I fixed it for you: the watcher from earth.”
#1366 6/5/2006
Comment by the Author: “Here is a cosmic poem of sorts, which I hope you enjoy; I do trust this briefly and vividly will exposes the element of suggestiveness of the beauty of God’s vast universe.”
In the universe, the one that surrounds the world (perhaps the mind as well)—someone once threw a ball—I do believe—somewhere, and it exploded—, somewhat: which slowed everything down a bit, and its thrust (its push, in all directions) is still keeping it airborne: carried by the push that was set in motion (so very long ago); hence, when it loses its momentum, it will crash, I do suppose, and all that is, will be the ball (its substance: what is hanging on to it, in it): that is all that will be left, everything else just: waves, just waves in nothingness what, that one person once made thrust out of; as a result, nothingness and all that it created will come to some kind of a standstill (I repeat)—it has to: for what will carry it? Save, that that someone does not create something else out of some kind of new anything. It’s how it was, how it had to be, how else could it have been: come about to surround the world, with all its t’s crossed, and i’s dotted. We normally don’t think this way, lest we want the mind to become mad.
I heard a voice in this dream of my mind, it said, “I am immortal, I sit behind the suns, and I write epitaphs of all, all the living things, then I open up their lips, an endless task it seems at times: the zenith of life comes from nothingness—and I, I hear their dying wish: to remain, to be something; eyeless faces, that is what you all were once, but by My graces so you became, and they become—more.
Orion’s illumed by my side, showers Me like a rainbow with its gasses, breathless orchard: it is the magnificent mocker of the universe: perhaps you would call it such, perchance: Baudelaire’s fantasy; or Poe’s Twilight; or Clark A. Smith’s perilous deep orchards; George Sterling’s musical images, ghostly lights; Dennis Siluk’s murmur, bemused silence; Ellis’ epigrammatic flight of the imagination. I touch, only touch (lest I destroy my own makings): only touch beyond its burning drums, into the winds of nothingness—what I created it all from. The horse head: it roars like a volcano, a moat around me; the Universe is like a squeezing viper, a sacrificial rip in all the proportions I’ve carved out of the thrust, as you call it, from the push: I fixed it for you: the watcher from earth.”
#1366 6/5/2006
Comment by the Author: “Here is a cosmic poem of sorts, which I hope you enjoy; I do trust this briefly and vividly will exposes the element of suggestiveness of the beauty of God’s vast universe.”
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 6:32 PM
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