Fast Poem: #3 Ghost-writing the autobiography of a Cloudless Midnight Sky

Star splatter sings chaos,
random points of light …
 … unconnected in space … unrelated in time …
 … yet patterns …
 … patterns generated by must-connect-the-dots human nature …
 … patterns passed from generation to generation;
language sprung reality,
stories,
lore,
oral tradition
dancing fancy dance;
drummers,
singers,
good smoke.

See the bear there?
Where?
There?

See the wagon?
You mean the dipper shape.
Ya you bet. It is a dipper shape.
We’ll call it The Dipper.

Reality carved from chaos.
The important work
of Human Spirit,
Imagination,
and Will.

Pattern addicts score
from preachers dealing
8-ball bags;
reality fixes.

Automatic pattern recognition,
evolutionary or inspired;
accident
of low current
synaptic thunderstorm,
stacking order from nothing,
wrapping concepts
in convincing words
topped with a bow of promise …
 … magi lifted gifts
offered from old generation to
new generation …
 … take eat these shapes …
 … take drink these names.

Inside the temple of Science
lab coated seers discuss inevitable real reality
masked like the soul of an ogre
beneath layer over layer over layer …
 … onion-skin thin deceiving film …
 … misunderstanding plied on illusion …
One day the holy trinity
Scientific Method
Critical Analysis
Publish First

will lift innocent Reality’s last petticoat
exposing Truth, capital T, for all to see.

Churches and sects,
celebrate
holy day
sacred poetry reality;
ambiguous, timeless,
holy text described,
verified by men mad enough to survive conversations with gods.

Alternate realities,
similar yet different enough
to justify mayhem,
each truth purveyor screaming
first right,
previous art,
smoking gun proof.

Choking on the rubble of religious wars,
rays of chaos illuminating heaven bent smoke,
humanity desperately assumes
a knock on wood solid
reality.
Blood in the streets, hate in the heart,
reality.
They disagree to agree,
out there, everywhere, lurks evidence
of undeniable order …

 … they fail to accept
infinite onion skin,
eternal ogres.

As above so below.
Constellations
created from random scattering of stars
warp under the looking glass
of relativity,
starlight scattering
like wind-blown leaves;
streaming random points
of color-shifted light.

Our feather-bed realities
ephemeral and ethereal,
in the end,
compact to artificial
patterns,
Ego mixed from chaotic Always,
whole cloth impetuously woven with language,
embroidered with story,
hemstitched with logic,
itself an artificial construct
spun from need to believe
in celestial cause,
temporal effect?

Fleeting bits of random energy
vibrating
from one random state to another …
 … day dreams in the minds of scattered gods
who imagine edges,
who connect a web of insignificant thoughts
to make us who call ourselves Me
momentarily real … individual sighs
in the greater night
of cosmic cocktail parties.

© 2008 Chrome Poet
Originally posted August 2008

© 2008-2012 Chromia Poetics