Saturday, March 13, 2010

the anniversary of black holes

I took a two hour test today. It wasn't that bad. I think. Who knows. Nobody, not even God knows. In the entire universe, no one knows how I did on the test. I think my test just fell into a black hole.

Something poetic must be written about the significance of yesterday. I will title this poetic piece "The Anniversary" and I will write it upon a bathroom wall with blood, draw a bath, and relax. Just kidding. But I probably should write something about the one year anniversary of the highest high and the lowest low. Why does low seem to outweigh high? I don't know. Not even a black hole knows.

Hey, rain. Today you are okay. You are even welcomed.

Here is a picture of God walking into a black hole, otherwise known as "God's garage" or "God's garage of the future."

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I found this fitting...


I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root;
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.

Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness?

Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it.
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.

Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, the big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand,a hand of wires.

Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.

I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?

I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches? ----

Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.

~Sylvia Plath