Dark Savants

A poem that I -think- is complete.

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A little peek from midnight’s window
Tells me there’s a limping doe
What a pity, what a pain
What a pretty little shame
And what a waste of Autumn flesh
A little peak through midnight’s window
Down the trail does see go
Down the trail doe she go
Down the tail, friend nor foe
But just her spot of sanctity
Though give it just a day and see
How these things sort themselves out
See how they become something bigger, or smaller
As the world decides their fit
Into the greater, grander, grosser, gleaming web of
Mystery
Of dusty pleas and destiny
Of dancing luminary sea
And see that sea
Come see with me!
There’s nothing to compare
To round the cape at stormy morning
Something dark and yet forlorn
Of emptiness, will sweep you up
And take you where you ought to go
So go, and treat once with despite;
This shadow isn’t lack of light
But rather it’s a lovely sight
But rather it’s the grandest show
Once you glimpse the misty wispy
Clouds that hang below the sky
And see the colors shifting simply
Simply lovely, sweetly sigh
A perfect truth you used to know
Will draw you deep into the throes
Of a place you had begotten
Towards the place that you forgot when
All the world had told you “no”
It’s lost, not gone
please put your faith
Into your own secret tongue
From which your soul is wrung and from
and from which all our worlds are sprung
The rooster crows and crow, he caws
And all the Universe of difference
Would lead neither one to doubt his advance
Too many are too blinded - think they’re fine
within their toil. But a look up from the soil
To the colored clouds above
Lets them hear their secret songs
And then dancing in among those secret words
They’ll realize
Finally, they’ll realize that while they never had it wrong
It was never what it could be.
It was never naked harvest near enough to honest living
It was never naked harvest… and the moon
The stars, now shining, show us each our secret sanctity
The coalescing colored clouds sing us each our secret song
The rooster crows, the crow, he caws,
The world decides what these things mean, if anything at all
And the doe, she limps along
And watching her through midnight’s window
Fresh from the fray
Full of failure and bound for more
I see the misty skies above
streaked with awe and pain and love
And I realize
Finally, I realize that nobody gets to the source of Trouble
Faster than the Dark Savants
I’m pretty arbitrary, when it suits me

Space is a big place

The other morning, after celebrating the birthday of a friend the night before, I came home at 3:00 AM and sat on the couch. I had intended to get on the computer to continue a conversation I had been having online before going home, but I was too tired to do anything physical, so instead I just lay there, thinking. Before long, I found myself pondering infinity.

I've done this before, on a limited basis, but I had never really appreciated the fullness of infinity. Even that morning, I'm sure I didn't reach the end of it. However, this morning I went further than I ever have. Space is a big place. It's difficult to think about it going on forever. There has to be an end somewhere right? There can't just continue to be new content, right? There's not just infinite black, right?

But then, what about the alternative? There can't just be an end to things. That's absurd. If existence just stops somewhere, then...well, just no. That can't be right. There are no walls in existence, are there?

Eventually, though, I found myself someplace I could accept. It's not so difficult to imagine Earth circling the Sun, nor the entire solar system, nor the Milky Way. It's not difficult to imagine other galaxies, even. I figure, then, that it just gets bigger and bigger. There's no largest increment that is charged with stretching on forever. It just keeps getting bigger and bigger, and as a result, every layer has a sort of finiteness to it. That's comfortable to me.

Of course, it can work in the other direction too. We, nor our cells, nor our atoms are the smallest thing out there. Maybe there's an infinite line of even smaller things. Maybe there's just an infinite line of things. We're just somewhere between the start and end to infinity.

Well...yeah. We're just somewhere between the start and end to infinity.

Also: What if the only relic an alien race will find of human existence is a doorknob?

Once upon yesterday

I heard a joke yesterday, and I realized it had been my favorite joke for a time, many years ago, but I had totally forgotten it:

What do you call a black pilot?

???

A pilot, you racist asshole.