Here’s a poem from an upcoming collection. I won’t name the collection because then this whole post is a sales pitch, and I don’t want it to be. I also understand I’m shooting my future self in the wallet by exclusively publishing weird things only a few people will like, but I don’t care. You like it and that’s all that matters.
As always, it will be self-published so nobody sands its edges off.
Feels weird to be posting poetry after such a long break. I went about 2 years without writing anything worth saving between 2018 and 2020, and didn’t publish anything for a while after. I think this is worth saving because it’s about gravitational lensing, not because it’s good. Whether it’s good or not has nothing to do with me. That’s your problem to worry about.
Squeeze
they found a galaxy at the edge of time an indescribable distance squeezed by gravity into something real like an embrace or developing photograph twelve billion years pressed like a diamond or the pressure you apply to an open wound some ghostly eyeball looking both ways a time machine of invisible fabric a dead island communicating in the same way long-gone musicians still sing and I wonder if one day we’ll be ancient aliens if they’ll look further back with dream-tech and wonder what we looked like if they might try to piece us together from a vague memory scraped from the cylinder space of a golden telescope or some robot mind if this cosmic closeness will exist to them as a tunnel, more than a lens (a connective tissue) if they might holiday in the past and return sleepy to the future (seeing time as flashing lights head resting on timeship window) as if Earth was a dream pressed between two periods of dim wakefulness something surreal wriggling under a microscope