Cut thumbs and messy
love lives,
you punch us
in the eye
from the grave
while the peanut-crunching crowd
watches the ripples
of the bodies and minds
pulled under
by the precise weight
of wounded words.
I want to tell you
both something:
The glossy black spider
outside my front door,
two red triangles
almost an hourglass,
could kill me,
but she hides away,
guarding her little ones.
My broken friends,
something forgives us all.
I am a guy
who looks at the moon
through this window;
you are a guy
who looks at the moon
through that window.
Everyone is a person
who looks at the moon
through a window;
the rest is a story,
and this is a story.
Still,
nosotros somos personas
que miramos la luna
a través de estas ventanas.
The total energy of
An isolated system
Remains constant.
Energy, like matter,
Is neither created
Nor destroyed.
I know this.
Which is why I went
Quite confusedly
Through my isolated system
Searching for the energy.
Any I could find.
Oh, I did find some…
Seeping meekly from
A trio of mismatched bulbs
In a dusty, bug-filled fixture…
Buzzing in brief, menacing bursts
From the wings of a paper wasp
Seeking refuge from the rain…
Falling in the incessant sleet
Of fingertips on keyboard and screen…
These were remnants
(Or so I thought)
Left behind after some
Unseen exodus of energy
From one end of my
Isolated system
To another.
Energy has a sound,
A smell, a feeling.
It should have left a clue
When it relocated.
A thunderclap
A whiff of ozone
A flash of heat
As the energy retreated
Into the attic, perhaps.
Or the toolshed.
The absence of energy
In an isolated system
Has its own sound.
A pitchless, timeless drone.
Audible inertia.
And it smells like apathy
Sprouting in old dishwater.
Feeling? That’s a tough one.
That requires a bit more energy
Than I can find right now.
I’m beginning to suspect
That the energy took one look
At this isolated system,
Gave William Rankine the finger,
And destroyed itself.
Not Another Frigging Blog 