By Byron Fountain
Art house theater, paint store, since burned
Down asking myself when do the atoms
Stop storming, life left silenced on its axis
(Only some nervous flickering) to create
Illusions of a life, this artificial darkness please stay
An actual world giving up your ghost at last.
The few traces of heat radiated, returning.
The collapsed sine & wave generated
In bold passions even then far and away
With speakers falling short of illusion’s sinkhole
white light & holes on a screen
This distracted passenger jet where we sit, staring
Slightly upward at some turbulence of shadows
that might still save us
From expansion of pressurized space
Through a pinhole with
Only fragments now beyond a time I once thought existed
My whole universe a projection between reels
A chain of Occam’s razors (it was) all about me with a you
To only my way of thinking, when I failed
to will this future forward
my remains forever falling just short of nowhere in
time -lapse shadows from irrational numbers
Here for an infinite double feature with the lights never brought up
And these forcefields I suppose within me only, unforgettable
–this shoulder barely touching yours.