Notes on a Meeting

or, ’10 Questions to ask a Flat Earther‘.

Whydoesthesunrise
andsetatdifferenttimes
dependingonwhere
youare

Oh my god I’m so
sorry why does the moon
have craters like
your brain I didn’t mean to –
why doesnt the air
all shoot off upwards out
of cracks in the glass

Why why would the pilot
spacemen scientist sailor
explorers lie?
Oh my god what’s through the glass
It’s Cthulu isn’t it –
Oh my god that’s probably – why
are there – I’m sorry
to rip our whole being
apart like this
no pictures of people
– – – leaning on it?
at the edge
of your brain?

What is under us
– miners are in on it too
and why does it keep
shooting out of volcanoes – oh my
god – so hot
you see they have an
answer to everything
you see… curvature ,

Just different kinds of
brains , there there
it’s okay, we can embrace
in the existential
space soup where do comets come from
– oh god I did it again so sorry
all the
thousands of the
neurons in your brain
sucked on and
fired by the space squid
to end, support all meanings

and built the glass dome then?
well I suppose that’s a stupid question
we don’t know that either but we –
you fell over, be careful
this gravity is
out to get you
, sorry ,density
But this density is driven
by what if not –

cavity in your
world-view great cavity
covered by a glass dome
we can’t quite reach it
to destroy it’s not really
about this earth
is it? its
something else

Maybe it’s not the kind of
thing that can be built
or knocked down and
I suppose its magic
that the stars
are the same
in australia
and south america
, seriously, what towering
immense magic could
do such a thing

I feel so stupid
you make me
feel so stupid
how strange

A Riddle

What am I?
My breath is the sea foam’s subtle churning
My breath is the bird’s automatic babbling
My breath is the cloud mist’s clenchings and unclenchings
My breath is the thundering star-wave thaum
My breath is the forking of lightning angles
My breath is the forging of mountain’s face
My breath is the sand’s tumble-glass roar
My voice is the sea whisper slump
My voice is the crow-cry’s arcing
My voice is the cloud gaze recognition
My voice is the thunder’s propogation
My voice is the forging of elements
My voice is the landslide’s destruction of roads
My voice is the pile’s piling angle
My brain is the moon’s towering amazement
My brain is the bird-brain’s response to a jump-scare
My brain is the sun, and the astronomical unit
My brain is the twinkling of nuclear despair
My brain is the electron’s earthquake fizz
My brain is the shading and curve of space-time
My brain is the hourglass curve and falling
What am I?

Questions of Living

How do we begin?
As our stuttering lives stall at the start
and our momentum leaks on the cracked flagstones
How do we choose?
Our choices crawl in the grass
but things are decided by feet walking
until our wails are cut short by the stamp
How do we live?
We don’t know how to choose, or begin.
How then, can we live?

We can live in the moment, maybe.
But living takes longer than a moment
and if the debt of many a moment piles up
in a greater accident – what then?
And our future moments are marked out
as so many digits in a bank account
How then can we live?

And living itself, what is living?
This waiting watching breathing sitting
Or the many flows of respiration
moving on through generations
not allowing us leeway to miss
these concrete hooks, and those who bait them?

Or maybe we can shore ourselves up
against the future’s distant storm
dark on the horizon, and our calm before it
By writing, thus, for futures to come
and hoping for rememberance, though not by that name
Or some strange force of propogation

Or pouring our measure into our friends –
the measure of our worldly time.
This at least is worth it.
This at least offers reply.

The question is a tricky thing
Posing ready to receive something quick
But certain questions won’t accept;
minor obsolete packets of sense
And rather burn for us to move ourselves
Out and about, to salve them.