You flew East
and I went West
Reality is such a subjective place
sometimes Fantasy is Best
Fire and Rain
Fear and Pain
Fall from the Northern Skies
Past is all pretense
of lost goodbyes
I fly East
and You wonder West
Reality is such a speculative place
ofttimes Fantasy is Best
Tears and Pain
Lights across the Southern Skies
Lost is all pretense
of fond goodbyes
None know East
None went West
Reality is such a subjective place
sometimes Fantasy is Rest
Lost beneath the Southern Skies
And you are gone
for love is the shiniest demon
cavorting in the temple
love has the tiny teeth of time
the tsunami that takes your breath
the perfume that would be illegal
in 37 states
the subtle poise and grace
of a water dragon
and she makes the most wondrous sound
as she tells you the tales
that will steal the precious moments
from your pocket
Ten thousand things
Left done and undone
The tea steams
The Lady writer is watching one of those hideous
Where the tail is the pendulum
And the eyes shift back
It seemed like such a good idea at the time
The wane light of a coming day
barely wins a fight with the sheer curtains
Over the breakfast nook
She lift her instrument of self torture
She lifts the pen
Touches it to the journal . . .
The nib skips a bit
Then bites the page
And those gathered asked many questions
thinking that as he was a poet
he would surely give them comfort
He ignored them until at length
‘Tell us poet
are words not the essence of all things
known and unknown?’
Fearlessly Poetry’s Idiot
turned to face the crowd
Cheered they asked
“Are words not the means by which we may control everything?
If we know the true words
then our power is without limit.”
The smile of a ghost played across his features
His voice deep and strong said
“You seek to control what you don’t understand.
A recipe for disaster. . .”
“Words are but a poor currency
A trifling means of representing something substantial.
Show me a dollar. . .”
“These are pictures of men that no longer exist
Not real living men.
This. . .”
He pulled a dollar from one
poked two holes in it
and placed it over the face of its owner so that the bill was a mask
“This is the problem.
You no longer see the world as it is
You see the world through the paper currency of your words.”
“Better that words had never been employed
for this habit of using words
has made you all lazy.”
And he was never seen again
no one can truly know
their own heart
without occasionally crossing over
from reality to fantasy
Sometimes you show up at the open mic
and no one else is showing up
So you whip out the tablet
nd you milk your heart for that word
te one that typifies he awkwardness of the moment
That will have to do
because the bookstore owner in headed for my table
and she is not smiling . . .
Karl logs them into the Mox-Nix lab, a very sparse space with a World Creation Table in the middle of the room. A Kyber comes to life and greets them. Jexi walks to one of the work benches and toys with the cytometers (she’s kinda distracted), Karl and the Kyber are talking in a highly animated fashion beside portal. The Kyber relents and moves to the panel that engages the Table. The Ergon field emitters energize and the generator sounds very much like a swarm of locusts in a blender.
Karl rummages through the frig, looking for anything that might have magically appeared over the course of the last few days (it is his frige after all). He nudges her and offers the remnants of a wabe sandwich. She refuses.
He turns back to the Table. It is fully energized now, waiting. She comes up behind him.
He says, “Don’t touch me there, unless you’re serious.”
“You are everso tawdry. . .”
“I’m serious Jex, mean it or leave it alone.”
She steps away from him and closer to the Table. She says, “How can I forge a new world without destroying the old one?”
“Not sure I understand the question.”
“Is there some way to forge a new world without destroying the old one? I have no wish to destroy the world; I’m just a bit bored with its current state.”
“You are the most dangerous when you’re bored.” She shows very little appreciation for his attempt at humor. He shrugs.
The Kyber brings control-gauntlets for both of them and helps her don her pair. Ripples appear in the field as she flexes her fingers. Karl says, “Focus on the details and the under currents will take care of themselves. It is in the details that the best worlds are made.”
“If I create them and destroy them is that murder?”
“I hate crap answers like that.”
He selects a world seed from the codex. Rotates it two hand widths above the table. It swells to the size of a Slag-ball while fractal subroutines add appropriate waters and land masses.
Karl says, “My studies have taken me to far an exotic places and in every one of them there is this thing called Life.”
The view zooms in so that a single oak tree fills the display field.
“Yet, no-one really knows what this ‘Life’ thing is . . . That whole particle and wave argument . . .”
The tree sprouts acorns.
“But I know one thing,” he whispers, “Life is an emergent property of the timely intermixes of matter and energy . . .and so is Death.”
The tree ages and shrivels. Barren rocks and volcanoes crop up through the vegetation. She weeps for the tree.
“You weep for the tree?”
“It was a beautiful oak . . .”
“How do you know it was an oak?”
“Acorns. Oaks all have acorns.”
“So by its fruit you know a tree?”
“OK, your turn.” He clears the table.
She lifts her hands. She says, “Are you going to get into trouble for letting me use this machine?”
“Depends on who you tell.”
“Your rivals of course.” She selects another seed from the codex. Her smile is radiant.
The seed evolves into a barren world. She discards it and tries another. This one develops a scummy layer that bathes the world in poison.
She says, “I’m doing it wrong. What is the problem?”
“You’re trying to do it with your mind and not with your heart. You have to let your hands feel as well as grasp.”
She selects another seed, pulls it into the air slowly, gently. Plasmids twine into self-replicating worms. Primitive plants rise from the land masses. She laughs.
She says, “I got this.”
“You might want to turn the tempo down a bit.”
“No, this is good. I am going to make this world perfect; no pain, no suffering. . . everything perfect.”
And everything is perfect for about a microsecond, then everything dies (horribly).
“Put it back . . . please.”
He does something interesting with his gloves and the world convolutes, twisting back and consuming itself like a virus. It turns turbid and then everything dies, again.
“You’re doing this. It not nice . . .”
“I turned it over to you.”
“Not fair, this is your machine.”
“Anyone can use this machine, but most people give up.”
“This time I’ll be more clever.”
“As you wish.”
She does something a little different and everything dies very quickly.
She says, “Shut it off, this entertains me no longer.”
“This is Art, it’s not for your entertainment, and it’s for your edification. You want to create worlds where there is no suffering but you also want worlds where there is Life. You want a top without a bottom, a Yin without a Yang. You want a wave that is a crest with no trough, a day without a night . . .”
She throws her gauntlets on the floor and storms out.
He removes his gauntlets and signals the Kyber to shut the system down.
To no-one in particular he says, “The problem when I started was I didn’t understand that the only real difference between a god and a man, is that a man knows when to quit.”