This entry is part 2 of 4 in the series The Lesser Pump
I’ve had a productive weekend. I’m feeling pretty good about it, but my latest project is taking longer than I’d hoped. It’s pretty ambitious. It’s epic. It’s about my time here in Denton. It’s about you. It’s about insecurity and the fear of hope. It’s about secluded evenings, and sneaking a secluded evening, every once in a while, with someone that makes you happy. It’s about long days becoming long nights and the Harvest Moon. It’s about loosing and winning and freaking out, that is to say, it’s about love.
Who doesn’t panic in the face of love?
Those that ain’t been hurt.
It’s about hurt and hope and rebirth and love and panic.
Here in Denton.
My most ambitious piece.
It’s gonna take a while.
Think of it as a convenience charge. You could write this schlock, but it’s time consuming, and it takes you places you’d rather not go. That’s where I come in. I sacrifice my life to ensure our allied viewpoints are preserved.
I write for you lover, outcast, left behind and forgotten.
For you scholar, explorer, tinkerer, fool.
Natural, cosmic, and mundane.
These poems aren’t for me,
They aren’t even for me and you.
They are for us, allies—
extant, and yet to be.
I serve your current fanciful and poetic needs, but I also make testament to the sublime balancing act of our time for our future allies, like that teenager of 2032, curled up in some dark hole, will know that our time was more than conflict and strife, hatred anger abuse and drought. There were people, your allies, and they strode proud in defiance and in love. They saw the world not so differently from you.
In 2100 someone mesmerized by our time is wondering WTF happened back then, and even with changes in the language, they’ll know we ran naked in jungles and ate fruit from the vine.
In the 2200s, on an outpost on Mars, someone feels a connection to the ancient past: others have known heartache and abandonment.
2300s, and people don’t talk anymore, so much as commune, and they quiver in joy: intelligence makes due and survives, and emotion is a part of that.
Running a poetic time capsule is expensive, and consuming, and I need your help. Your patronage will ensure that our allied world views, and our secret selves, have a voice.
“Imagine a bubble!” he shouts at the audience.
“Imagine I’m surrounded by a bubble
whisper thin and darkness beyond”
He shouts at the void
“My observable universe extends for two feet in all directions
it is populated with me of course and memories of you”
“My observable universe is fueled by love
and ceases up like everything else
in the heat death
a pristine perfect shuttle frozen in position
which, once dislodged, will weave love into the universal constants themselves
which once again will be woven from and through itself”
he shouts at the sublime fabric