This rusted throne of kings, this gilded smile, This divine right of blood, this gift of sight, This better race of man, madness defiles This luscious home of dreams, this earthly plight, This inherited form, this gift of life, This other choice of men, madness defines.
In youths youngest hour comes the dawn, and we whirl around at the sky, and being young and in love with blue, tulips, and clouds we fall not knowing that one day the sun would forever go down, and the children get up and dance and sing in the streets, London Bridge is Falling Down and we whirl around in wondrous glee.
Long, at last, The Vostok had pierced the darkness and thrust Yuri into the firmament; We leapt from spherical craft to the vault of heaven, and waded ourselves in a bit with legs new formed like a tadpole in morph.
In fire and sparks the Saturn 5 was born: Mighty Zeus himself had crafted the name and Leto surely guarded Neil and Buzz as they blasted their coarse in a craft—we launched Apollo, the old Olympian God and thirty two million horses aloft.
The world and all of its kin found itself as moths circling the television flame— pinned to Cronkite and the radio wave, as both Eagle and Buzz set down to Sea.
One great leap for mankind—we would follow and pierce the darkness to glimpse the mount and seat of Gods again. Our hearts would lead, and our feet would follow, but the veil of heaven is thin and the forest is dark with life.
For fifty years we’ve kept our feet on Earth and filled the vacuum with The Kardashians, Kanye, and the endless noise of Nancy Grace, fairly unbalanced in her pulpit cries.
From its jeweled coffers life feeds on life. The tusk of the narwhal was built from blood— in its spirals eons stack up the cost. Even the helical form of fractal Romanesco Broccoli is bathed in the dead of the lifeforms that could not out complete such a splendid looking broccoli as it.
At worst Fermi has left us with millions of civilizations dispersed, surely we should have heard some noise by now— some distant music from a farther room.
We have gone out in the darkness in waves to the places between the stars and traveled beyond that first awkward step as Marconian ambassadors, broadcasting our whereabouts— a little blue planet—just left out of the caves.
If the forest wasn’t dark and the hunter was not lurking about the trees, surely we would have heard the children singing, surely we should have heard the chips of birds or the thunderous feet of some flower become sentient now after a gigayear spent smiling up at a dwarf sun.
Life feeds on life, and in the dark of ages hence it has gathered about the Goldilocks and clutched its young with something like arms, and being reasonable decided to lock the door rather than chance the great mistake of waving a leg or a tentacle our way.
A poem I wrote while thinking about the lost statue, “The Poet at the Gates of Hell,” now known for just it’s center portion, The Thinker.
As I sit thinking of Rodin’s great statue, The Poet At The Gates Of Hell and bards since past in battle with follied madness—in length and breadth at their obligations, I too sing fortissimo at the soldiers advance, at drums beating their muse in the fields of the dead: the clomping boots mid-march to claim new land, the menacing certainty of blood spilled, the dangers hidden in the advancement.
Revolution most grand I chant, vive la révolution, vive l’esprit de l’homme!
Underneath the concrete and glass skyscrapers weight I’m certain that spirit and advancement endure, gathering light at its edges as if perfume suppressed, supine along the floor waiting for some fortuitous windfall, to turn silver droplets from Katy Perri’s Plastic bags—
The restless mist that goes out at evening and plasters itself—to the Iphone’s glow at parks and while glued in theater seats, the mist that pins itself to the floor or gives its momentum up to hissed dogma underneath the concrete and glass skyscrapers weight.