I, a universe of atoms an atom in the universe.

I stand at the seashore alone and start to think.

There are rushing waves, mountains of molecules, each stupidly minding its own business, trillions apart yet forming white surf in unison. Ages on ages before any eyes could see, year after year thunderously pounding the shore as now.

For whom for what on a dead planet with no life to entertain. Never at rest, tortured by energy, wasted prodigiously by the Sun,poured into space, its might make the sea roar. Deep in the sea all molecules repeat the patterns of one another till complex new ones are formed. They make others like themselves and a new dance starts. Growing in size and complexity, living things,masses of atoms, DNA, proteins dancing a pattern ever more intricate.

Out of the cradle onto dry land, here it is standing, atoms with consciousness, matter with curiosity, stands at the sea, wonders at wondering,

I, a universe of atoms an atom in the universe.

—Richard Feynman

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EngagingWaterfowl, and God Gloats Upon Her Flesh

I wish I bore an ease

That savoured every quip

I hate the hurting  more

Because the laughter becomes


And then what do I do or say

I’m suddenly too small


than spooning reveille

Harder than the threat-side of

your whisper,

Time then to make a

home in wilderness.

All days are nights to see till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me. SONNET♦43

Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response

likewise ungovernable “I Sing the Body Electric”


my exuberance stutters, splash my eye alkali.

I’ll open them and stutter sting again

Every time like Lye.

No less black for having seen fowl coming, heard as always in a tongue to me half-known

Please speak it to me now and infra-text Enigma

I have no plan  to interdict encryption

Always mostly pining longing swelling , of breakers, of a spreading pick-pocket wet

Of a pulse, a grace the gift of dream’s defibrillation.

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love! -then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone,
and think,
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

God Gloats Upon Her Stunning Flesh. Upon

E. E. Cummings

god gloats upon 
Her stunning flesh. Upon
the rechings of Her green body among
unseen things, things obscene 
(Whose fingers young

the caving ages curiously con)

—but the lunge of Her hunger softly flung
over the gasping shores
                          leaves his smile wan,
and his blood stopped hears in the frail anon

the shovings and the lovings of Her tongue.

god Is The Sea.  All terrors of his being
quake before this its hideous Work most old
Whose battening gesture prophecies a freeing

of ghostly chaos
                    in this dangerous night
through moaned space god worships God—
where chaste stars writhe captured in brightening fright)



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The Machine Stops (EM Forster)

I suggest you indulge in short stories. Something delectable, almost

gratuitous about a one-sitting read.


Imagine, if you can, a small room, hexagonal in shape, like the cell of abee. It is lighted neither by window nor by lamp, yet it is filled with a softradiance. There are no apertures for ventilation, yet the air is fresh. Thereare no musical instruments, and yet, at the moment that my meditationopens, this room is throbbing with melodious sounds. An armchair is in thecentre, by its side a reading-desk–that is all the furniture. And in thearmchair there sits a swaddled lump of flesh–a woman, about five feethigh, with a face as white as a fungus. It is to her that the little roombelongs.An electric bell rang.

Aside from the necessities such as food and clothing, the Machine provided humankind with a different way to connect with each other, a way that leads to complete isolation. People rarely leave their rooms or meet face-to-face; instead they exchange through a global web that is part of the Machine. Each cell contains a glowing blue optic plate and telephone apparatus, which carry images and sounds among individuals and groups. This boost of technology increases the accessibility to others even from far away, but diminishes the purpose of personal interactions. Forster also realizes that the quality of personal connection depends on the quantity-often inversely. The more people one knows the easier it is to replace them. In other words, too many connections devalue each one of them and they become less of a concern.

Vashti, writes Forster, “knew several thousand people; in certain directions human communication had advanced enormously.”




The Machine Stops by E.M. Forster

First published in the Oxford and Cambridge Review in 1909






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chaos, attraction

Victorian font to monochrome your soft lines

I use fingers like thumb smudging charcoal sketch

Proportion faithful kept,    for the ambidexterity of light to dark, the binocular impression yours makes.



Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out

against the sky

Like a patient etherised upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of resdess nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

TS Elliot




How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed—On through the watching for that early birth—–When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,—The sturdy seedling with arched body comes—–Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.   Robert Frost

As    through a              punch through    tempered steel, lady, lady mark    my words

There is no

linen venue prepared

for the soiling

Wild Nights — Wild Nights!

Were I with thee Wild Nights should be  Our luxury!

Futile — the Winds —To a Heart in port —Done with the Compass —Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden —Ah, the Sea!

Might I but moor — Tonight —In Thee!

E. Dickinson


Whenever a dissipative map translates a volume of state space completely inside itself, we know immediatelythat an attractor exists without knowing what it looks like.



‘Tis Paradise. In such an hour

Some pangs that rend might take release.

Nor less perturbed who keeps this bower

Of balm, nor finds balsamic peace?

From whom the passionate words in vent

After long revery’s discontent? melville

And ferrous flesh will glow

On our imaginary downward voyage to ever smaller domains, after reaching the size of a single proton, we would have to gotwenty powers of 10 further to reach the Planck length. Only then would the glassy smooth spacetime of theatomic and particle worlds give way to the roiling chaos of weird space‐ time geometries. The wormhole would be but one simple manifestation of the distortions that could occur. So great would be the fluctuations thatthere would literally be no left and right, no before andno after. Ordinary ideas of length would disappear.Ordinary ideas of time would evaporate. I can think of nobetter name than quantum foam for this state of affairs.


John Wheeler





The highest purpose is to have no purpose at all. This puts one in accord with nature, in her manner of operation.

John Cage















Orbs give me semi–fore

for “when”

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When our two souls stand up erect and strong- Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher– Until the lengthening wings break into fire

When our two souls stand up erect and strong,
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
Until the lengthening wings break into fire

“supine”   incessant plucking
mouths are filled with sighs are filled with tongues
peel-splitting, tensile threats made good upon.
There            is               nothing                   weightless in your floating.


During those weeks I had begun to read a book that made a more lasting impression on me than anything I had read before. Even later in life I have rarely experienced a book more intensely, except perhaps Nietzsche. It was a volume of Novalis, containing letters and aphorisms of which I understood only a few but which nevertheless held an inexpressible attraction for me. One of the aphorisms occurred to me now and I wrote it under the picture: “Fate and temperament are two words for one and the same concept.” That was clear to me now


They are in love. Fuck the war.


There was no difference between the behavior of a god and the operations of pure chance.



I wonder now if you busied, open hood of letter box

Hole horizon

Absence where aching of my absence

Parted lips, the countenance of unwatched

provision for quickened breathing.






The victim’s have been bled
Red velvet lines the black box











It is interesting to observe how real the object remains, in spite of all abstractions.









Till this moment I never knew myself.”
— Jane Austen



I am Gravity, I am That against which the Rocket must struggle, to which prehistoric wastes submit and are transmuted to the very substance of History.






I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.
— Pablo Neruda














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Agony Column, of the “Times” 1800-1870. Acting is happy agony.

For, my lady, when I write good night, I speak it aloud as I write; and there is in

my voice more than I dare tell you of now.

This is perfect for facebook.


“The contents of the little volume now presented to the public have been taken from the second column v (commonly called the “Agony Column”) of the K Times newspaper, from the commencement of the present century to the end of the year 1870. Readers of newspapers (more especially of the Times) cannot fail to be struck by the mysterious ] communications which daily appear, and I venture ito hope my selection of some of the most remark- able may interest those who peruse these pages.”

Through our daily walk in life we brush up against millions of fellow-men, yet of how few amongst them do we know anything.? We each live in a world of our own ; we draw a circle, as it were, around us, within which centre all our interests.

How lightly our feelings are touched by what happens outside our circle is shown by the exclamation that escapes our lips as we read a fresh tragedy in the daily papers. The actors in it are unknown Romances, stranger than fiction, happen under our very eyes, and we do not see them. With hearts that are breaking men and women can go through the duties of every-day life, wearing calm and even smiling faces. He knew human nature well who wrote — ** Broken hearts are dumb— or smile.”

I have been able to show so many different ways in which our simple alphabet can be changed to form a language that will defy a large majority of the public, that I feel sure that all those who are denied the privilege of an open correspondence, might, with a little ingenuity, find a way of com- munication that would baffle those whose eyes they fear ; but at the same time let them remember that parents, guardians, and friends will have discovered in my pages that what looks so unintelligible at first sight may, with a little patience, be read as easily as the plainest English printed in our news- papers.

What happens? Stories without endings.

And the rather sanguinary suggestion: DE Box: First round; tooth gone. Finale. You will FORGET ME NOT.

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Do Robot Aliens Exist, Good Fucking Questions Pt 1 Audio

Close player
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Made Flesh


It’s simple flowing assumption

And perhaps I have the words

Fall creeps like a slow flame
over a maple   limb by limb
leaves that once fanned their hands
open   wanting to put themselves
all over everything   begin to glow
brave vermillion and lively yellow
let at last their fingers curl
into the palm   and let go

The same fire is touching us
around the edges   licking wrinkles
into the corners of our eyes
making the skin inside our elbows
silky as old coins
And when we lie
together   and I feel your bones
blaze    and the rose of your face unfolds
and the incandescence of your skin
crackles   like the paper at the tip
of a drawn-on cigarette   and dies
in a final fluttering of ash

Then   then we feel death
as the deepest coming   then we ease unhurried
into the bud of body   then we learn
little by little   to relinquish
gracefully   and less afraid
each time   to let each other slip
slowly out of our clasp   made
fire   made flower   made flesh

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pygmalion prosody


Dusting through books. Secrete salt of sorrow.
I had science’d and magick’d, and Shelley-Shaw’d a Venus.
Pig-iron Pygmalion, I, broken-mirror suitor, and flesh-crawl
your moat

beached abrasion

the tenacity of sand.

In my land-locked Suitordom, we never saw the Sea.

A glued-hand-green dagger, and driven by Powers, or Dominions, or another out-ranked Choir of
throat-slitting Grace.
A kryptonite ore blade, wooden stake for a Robot.
And Heaven in binary sends a transmission


vernacular omitted compliant w/papal bull

Suffice to impart I my solitude at dreary mid-day.

And nights are sleepless.    From ticking.      From clicking.
Click under
Click floorboards.

My passion still reading

On dead love’s sternum
Geiger counter.



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the headless-en-tyne aftermath

Afield at dusk
What things for dream there are when specter-like,
Moving amond tall haycocks lightly piled,
I enter alone upon the stubbled filed,
From which the laborers’ voices late have died,
And in the antiphony of afterglow
And rising full moon, sit me down
Upon the full moon’s side of the first haycock
And lose myself amid so many alike.
I dream upon the opposing lights of the hour,
Preventing shadow until the moon prevail;
I dream upon the nighthawks peopling heaven,
Or plunging headlong with fierce twang afar;
And on the bat’s mute antics, who would seem
Dimly to have made out my secret place,
Only to lose it when he pirouettes,
On the last swallow’s sweep; and on the rasp
In the abyss of odor and rustle at my back,
That, silenced by my advent, finds once more,
After an interval, his instrument,
And tries once–twice–and thrice if I be there;
And on the worn book of old-golden song
I brought not here to read, it seems, but hold
And freshen in this air of withering sweetness;
But on the memor of one absent, most,
For whom these lines when they shall greet her eye.
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