Poetry By
Janice Arnott
Published on: 4/5/2011
Existence-Experience
1. Before the world was world, its word was written in Voynich script. The nothing-everything heaved inside out like robotic insects learning to swarm: ugly, this unborn mutant Universe, but no curio curator can Pandora-glance inside its jar, or explain the mighty cosmic pilot light's anti-logic all riddled through with anti-fractals curling inward. Reality has it quarantined, non-existing out of time, still and forever. 2. We are all refugees of that first battle, back in the non-beginning when no rules applied. Largely by accident nothing ate through everything and everything invaded nothing, both freeing the captive something -- some small discrete indignant speck half-made, half-lost, and mad. 3. The Instance is the secret life of the Ideal (life lies in imperfection) so once an angel fell at the speed of entropy through time for an 80-year span and was shocked to be. 4. She observed and spacetime leapt into being, wrapping around her senses, and it seemed to her that reality was merely what she saw, that the distant trees were really that small. 5. I stayed still and pulled the future back against me at the speed of light to let its moments stroke past my brain as the present time. 6. Thoughts, like vagrants, own no real estate but sneak off through space and even steal, unnoticed, into someone else's brain and leave all the lights on. 7. Some freak she was, one half of a conjoined twin, the Universe the other half. Joined sense to sense like that: breath to breath, back to back, each half- hobbled by the other's pull, she researched her wild escape but found she supplied space and time without which all things happened at once and never: her own death forever forestalled. 8. Oh well, she said, nothing breeds hope so much as things found wanting. And I'll tell you something: nothing ever happened without desire so compelling as the opening of the moon. Didn't you know? Nature adores a vacuum. That vast longing. The Universe craved itself into existence. 9. We were like kids playing a holy game of house with space and time, like walls and windows, curtains, tea sets. All so meaningful in their meaningless non-existent gleam tucked away in a child's eye, being the industrious wife with the egg beater and the vacuum cleaner, martyring while spacetime cheated. 10. She never felt like moving forward so she walked by turning the Earth with her feet. What other way was there? She thought how energetic her will must be to pull the world and its trees and telephone poles past her. How slippery space must be to let every girl make it slide. 11. Long before I knew you, I knew a madman. There was something wrong with his brain - he said he had a Janus-head observatory where his mind ought to be. So he saw reality in stereo and reported back to me, half-astonished, that there was a retrograde view for everything. It made him mad, or he was mad already, I don't know, but he wouldn't move without also keeping still and he was never in the moment without also shucking time. I got used to it. It was just the way he was. Anyway, after a while I sometimes caught myself pulling space a little when pacing in the night. I didn't tell him. Maybe heliocentrism was counter-intuitive for a reason, but nowadays no one thinks the Earth isn't moving and I'm not about to start. 12. Truth, that binary star co-dependent on antipodal pull, wars without armistice for absolutes, leaving everything hanging unknown and infinitely meaningful and infinitely meaningless. 13. Evening breathes into the day as sharp as sunlight splitting trees, and you watch the world print its pretty sorrow typeset (bold) in streaming clouds and shadow-sun. It makes you shake, how the hours become time-lapse seedlings quivering to life and death in ten seconds flat, how you are only as significant as your insignificance. 14. The universe was not made from scratch but scraped out of excess. You, the wholesome pioneer of this wilderness, break potential like daily bread, like horses, as prayerfully as you pick the stones from the field and burn out the stumps. Out here there is only one way to live: to give time and space to everything, as needed, as much as your rough hands can bear, and ignore the ghosts of other lives that float dreamwards over the rich tilled earth. 15. Potential does not die but abides, gently, as an old man's hat on its stand. Not stiff with bravado but soft as a sleeper's peace; still sometimes it's a bad tooth keeping you up at night, aching not for what could have been but for what is, somewhere just out of reach. 16. To answer your question, yes. Open-arm it; take home particle and wave like prodigal sons. Keeping giving yes as if everything were true. It is; yes. Then spend a sleepless summer night in North Bay, and beg for morning, when you'll sweep a thousand wiry corpses of mayflies off the porch. Yes, yes. 17. Home is lost without you. Everything you ever touched goes to seed, takes a new life, and breeds. Spacetime, bewildered by its grief, shrivels up to nothing and forgets what day it is. Slipknots curl into fate and fray around the edges; order quits. So vast is this loss, there's no coming back, and nothing to come back to: the world is placeless, rioting amongst itself, churning emptiness and jammed up with memories of all the things that never happened.
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