© 2019
by Shaun Lawton

Mark the Scope

A hard-drive sits in a pile of rust 
mistaken for the dunes of a desert over
the horizon of a long poisoned place
half buried in the red sandy grains blending 
into one another like the curves of sleeping 
women by the constant winds erased.  

The dunes shift and grow as the wind blows 
off the grains by the millions in a fine spray 
of dust gradually disappearing into the distance 
only to swallow up the sinking Sun in a wavering 
unfocused miasma of pungent slag. 

The Cloud does not whir, in silence it does not stir
quietly it is churned without even the shadow 
of a sound, around and round it slowly grows
as more and more files continue to upload
forcing it to swell, ripen, and breed.

The Cloud does not know that it needs everything 
we want to remember, so it forgets its there just as 
surely as we disregard we're awake.  Asleep in our dream
we close our eyes, so when we open them back up 
upon waking we're still really sleep walking without 
knowing it. The trick is the next time we find ourselves 
having suddenly dropped or fallen while lying reposed 
on our beds, that is the instant in which it is necessary 
to willfully stand up from the bed and open our eyes
(this for the last time) before resuming our sleep cycle 
uninterrupted by the parasite dreams competing with 
each other to feed on our electrostatic energies. 

You see, this world you observe outside of our warped car 
windshields and polarized sunglasses and disposable contact 
lenses, this growing complex organism of chaotically ordered 
arrangements that we call life, that we visualize so clearly 
from behind our corneas and through the pin-hole cameras 
of our eyes, processing sensual information to our brains, 
arranged in patterns that mirror pairs of galactic superclusters
despite appearing as a single realm or continuum through which 
we may step, so carefully one foot at a time, in such a measured 
and resolute manner, across the most steadfast bedrock stage 
of planetary solitude, may in reality (insofar as how the value 
of that word relates to our comprehension of what it is supposed 
to represent) be not so much the singularity we imagine it to be 
suspended in a likewise manner amid the scattered bodies of the stars
but more of an entangled miring of criss-crossed and knotted clusters 
of multiverses competing to perform their song which results 
as a symphonic overture seamlessly blended together into 
what appears to us as the singularity of our world.  

The inimitable presence of a superconductor remains 
at large suspended in the very atoms we breathe.  

When we articulate our belief systems with our 
human voices we are adding nothing more than 
chimes to the backdrop of this overture.  

When we procreate and raise children who grow 
tall and kind and wise we are adding instrumental 
prowess to the orchestral pit in constant turmoil 
at the quantum level of creation.  Mountains heave 
upward through oceans from shifting tectonic plates 
while oxygen facilitates the growth of a fungal hide 
upon the planet's crust which the Earth itself 
must scratch away the itch fertilized by lightning 
strikes and pulverized asteroid mist adrift 
with dandelion spores and bee pollen. 

The key to seeing the bee as it really exists 
in our world is to see that it's not from this world.  

The corner stone of under standing out in the field 
of real knowledge is to remain ignorant.  

Usable information is static at best and passed
 from hand to mouth and lips to ear for years.  

The words are seldom remembered but the actions 
they engender are copied almost forever.  

The most colorful birds or the feathers 
of dinosaurs are not of this earth but another.  

The sky seeps in from afar as well siphoned 
intentionally to keep us under its spell. 

 The skin of the sky is like the lid on an eye 
that is sleeping in its own unmade bed.  

The spores of the pine tree are as alien as any
thing piped in from the mysterious Outside. 

For all we know, serpents and cats originate 
from an ancient process, the Chimera Divided. 

 Its attempt to contribute to our compound reality
may have refracted into the two separate species. 

This planet any planet all planets like our Sun 
This star any star all stars like this galaxy

Any galaxy.  All galaxies.  Like any super
cluster, galaxy, star, planet, plutino, centaur

Asteroid, moon, comet, or meteorite, this Earth 
remains the exact and precise divine center.

The Time of Anarchia

  It is a time of frustration amid conquest, a time for killing bees in order to keep our lawns tidy and clean. A time when citizenship means tainting one's innocence with the complicity of mass suicide. A time when all one can do is wink and think "That's the problem though, isn't it? Thinking about it in the first place,"  a time that is forever escaping us through the collective screen of our forgetfulness, a time to be echoed through the void after its own echoing, a time currently being lost to us all at an accelerating rate we are fundamentally incapable of keeping up with,  a time bound to leave its imprint as yet another layer of electromagnetic radiation which woven into helps define the remainder of creation, in other words a time like any other to come or go before it, a time whose arena becomes the stage of our actions and their consequences here during this primordial moment we managed to capture for ourselves by our very definition, the solitary champions of existence, wallowing in this, the time of our lives, a time of shedding more than skin after we strip our clothes, a time of flensing and dismounting from our sure footed steeds, our bodies we have ridden this time wave upon wave our entire lives from the moment we were conceived, to our Mothers we have continued to occupy and further this time, a time of treasured visions behind the eyes of a dragon, a time of sapphires and tiger pupils held in locked regard, a time of regalia and innocence devoured wholly as in the instance of the anaconda preying upon the star-nosed mole, a time of rapture like any other and of a pain so unique and intense it blurs away altogether among the suturing numbness of the stars, a time to remember who we are and forget who we've become; the universal solvent performs its work on everyone, once upon a time when personality was exterminated in favor of efficiency and convenience, when fear of the dark was bred out along with the heart, where automated drones did not so much as spill a single teardrop over the prospect of the extinction of the bees, where gray skies unleashed radioactive rain upon a new continent of plastic, Anarchia, home for the formerly homeless and disenfranchised splinters of humanity, a time when oceanic travel was outlawed by every nation on Earth and pirates once again roamed the seas, naturally; it was a time for starting over and beginning new stories. 

The Receding Horizon of Tomorrow's Dream

A starfire came winnowing up from the fanning motion caused unwittingly by three mule men sitting at a polished obsidian table playing Cabron with a soft greasy deck of cards so worn out the hearts and spades had been colored back in several times over the years. They had gambled away their sapien souls in the game against El Chulo, lost over the withered and dried crops hacking out dust clouds in a slow roiling backwards motion revealing the uncurled entrails of a slaughtered pig shark.

Slit open flaps stretched out, pinned with its own serrated hook teeth in a screaming revelation of its inner abortion. A gurgle sucking rolled up nearly translucent worm baby whose coal diamond eyes have dialed open the short distance between it and its dead mother splayed and hacked wide open a monotone receiver - (no answer) - so kid, rictus set, resolved to climb the ladder until several new skins grew and shed, each enmeshed from the stripped hides of jackal daffodils growing wild like fireweed in sussuration, lichen lapsed in a hungry siege vortex.

Attempting penetration of a maximum security business office shielded by man tall mirrors tiled against the lost dwarf star slipping into unconsciousness the farther scientific knives brighten, the less strands left from the cut cord unraveling dead weight pulling gravity grinning knowing who's winning because the few left in the open have lost god, was the rough approximation of what a 273 year old sea tortoise glimpsed in a nictitating fraction of a moment as it gazed into a still eyelet of sheer lucid reflection one blood drop removed from rippling out of focus.

A delicate interval suspended in bright silence blitzshrieked in a gradient ramped in by the frenzied choral overtures of frequency city, and the great ancient corrugated fins stroked twin hooked track patterns in the sand, where hermit crabs have traced and mimicked the nervous history of Cheloniidae already; a crooked, branching network leading across random vistas of moonlit bones of coral where ghost crabs haunt the sidewinder ways and a binary star is visible to the naked eye of an octopus secreting a dried out mucous castle to peer out from under the pier at the hunchbacked manacled procession of slaves furrowed in the brow of a central american wasteland.

Singled out as the only inheritance, and with the edges melting from the poles more every year, the jilted dancing reflections, like moths flying apart in a darkened jar, with the lord of hydrogen dissolving from the sky, Juan Carlos Morte simply lifted his hands to the universe, pulling shoulder harness straps looped twine taut, a jack in the box surprise over oily thumbed cards, geisha veiling the shotgun blast behind a paper partition. Spray art and brimstone rising sunburst spattered spangled and tattered in the age old manner of surrender, taken for waving goodbye, the lousiest hand of goat rummy sporadic chance ever dealt.