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Cosmos Anew


   

I A sun, two eyes and three bears, four sides to a square, five-pointed star, six characters in search of an asteroid, seven seas, continents, dwarfs, pillars of faith. II Our first language is binary: yes, no. Which triggers the cosmic mysteries of gender. Man and animal, good and evil, follow. Building blocks, confusion, complexity come with time. III Tree stillness, river ubiquity, these are goals, ideals distracting us from conceptual criminal careers. Tibia, trust, hated obfuscation in search of vague telemetry, universal explosions of torso understanding. IV The word is from the German: sun. The word is from the German: son. The word is from the German: arm. The word is from the German: moon. V Holy forest in time for dinner thirst bells are ringing in the night year end sale, sail into red sunset spiral of life magazine rack and screw you. VI My Judy Garland life has been torn between splintered Gemini and hesitant, shy Cancer, but bull in a Japanese garden Venus in Taurus does not fit to print. VII Smoke. Every word has baggage. Silence. Deflection. This is an attempt at astronomical meaning man-made and photographed explosion, a block-sized crater on the asteroid the size of Manhattan. VIII Poets do the impossible: use old words to describe the moment one hundred percent new for which they travel dark distance of disrespect and neglect, an expansive void. IX Waning is the worst: the descent doesn't have to beckon; the descent is inevitable. The descent is made better and worse by memories of the arduous, arbitrary ascent. X By the time the word is created, autumnal, it is too late to mention. Eve after noon after morn Whistler grey with Van Gogh jagged edges twilight dawn. XI Narrator? Protagonist? The voice of God is not on tape entered into evidence enough of syllables, tempos, prayers in Japanese gardens which bring us to be here now. XII And every night and every day in which they are there but can't be seen the stars are a bit closer or farther apart than in Plato's day. XIII Pass my ashes by thirteenth moon on paths in astral woods where men discover distant comets and deflect targets of desire as close as your own icy sweat.

Copyright 2005 by Greg Baysans

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