Friday, June 18, 2010
Charcoal black organdy of liquified carbon compounds welcomes an evening dip. Black mirror panels contract with globe viscosity in the wake of our globular progression, relaying sonar rings in blip-timed contractions to every bank. Several hundred feet away, across the lake, flame-dipped fire panels flicker wildly in shear-sheen over the black hole. A train chases Pluto back into the molten center of the Earth, teases the the water in a smash of blanket show, hurdling back into the underworld and folding the fabric of space-time sixteen times before the rocket sound waves are swallowed by a sound pocket. It careens from one dimension of existence to another, squeezed and exhumed via peristalsis as quickly as eels form the eleventh room, displaying a last epoc-swelling whose bursting seams bely the locamotive's breach-of-light speed. The pond has never been so still, a glassy-eyed portal into the isotopic propetiation of elemental magnesium and spelunking swans. A comatose eel undulates into view, and our arms moving into the rest, define the center of the lake. We are able to preceive a tiny bit of information in our environment, an ultra-violent flower in violation-blue, a fraction of the potentiate energy of the universe. White diorama dive into liquid crayola of finless fish, where from the flotation device of our pulmonary organ we throw back our heads and fish-lens the universe within the lakeful meniscus, altering perception indefinitely, retroactively, and violationally. The vulnerability of flesh-time is an instant too small to be documented in the ticker-tape of space-time records (in the stars, asteroids, more likely just lint flung into vapidity, or caught, suspended in the green Jell-o matrix of infinity.) We slip on our black-light wetsuits, butterfly with the speed of mosquitoes through hot pancake syrup and strike out for the docks, our bodies thumb-manipulating the hot wax figurine of lake-space.