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Sunny Day Physics What is the nature of this force-- the spectacle of ligh that burns itself to death the thing that even the minnows have, pushing themselves to some higher form not the storm of numbers and language, the syntax of laws which describe the push as a methodology of domination-- the physics of this city: a poor song sung by mathematicians and mass transit bus drivers. Not that. What is the nature of this force-- the shit that churns interior vessels; the paste that keeps them all afloat? Could it be only that which is not seen like the remembrance of an awful crime. Is the force of this woman, the push of that man, the burning of residue, the pale red of tenderness smealt into stellar blue? A flame with importance, this weight is what feeds us. A fire to drink from a garden of eden a will to write, a touch accomplished; the true nature of force is finding a way out. Not to be beaten senseless or pummeled by the off-shoot fear But to be cured from sickness simply by the offering: we help ourselves by easing off the gas, the engine rests and then we may collect awarenes like butterflies. The cables of our lives loosen their fibres, as the force slips away gently, only for a moment are the fools allowed a peak behind the curtains. With brows raised, the frightened face of Oz turns; a fun-house mirror, reflections of our own youths seen through a prism: this force, out across the leveled and broken concrete, is the luminescence refracting into halo upon halo of light energy. |