Black Immediacy, Dark Matter at Atomic Ground Zero
Sean Farragher

"Now I will shine for all the world to see."

We purify absent light with incandescent streaks
of imported mornings invented from history
not deciphered, but abstracted and dangerously
compressed until the mantle shook with billions
of years of force to ascend oceans to hold half zero
while the binary number washed up at riverside
with shad, eels and porgies.

The fish were an illusion. The sun did not shine.
Nothing defined the exterior. There was no
topology to arrange salt; mass was none;
the odor of decayed fish rafted into Amiens cathedral.

Techno-thriller banged haphazard bells on schooner,
a fore-and-aft rigged sailing vessel with two masts,
a foremast, and a mainmast stepped nearly amidships.
The old fashioned computer game show did not play,
would not calibrate to the empty roads and lean roses.

Red, Gray, Viridian sails violate ocean waves
over turned, under spun whirlpools in descent.

We drown. We elevate precious absent light
to empty morbid space until out of control,
oily waters complete us, our Pacific dies too soon.

Radiance unsettles what is, and what won’t fit faithfully
in the molds. Production held up. Vice respects absence
and glare from black sun, and I know “now that I will shine
for all the world to see” while lepers danced suspended
in chalk ooze while magical slurry settled into open
delta no GPS could map. During the next cycle,
and next, we celebrate nothing and that nihilism
brittle as throat-lost words -- echolalia’s song
strummed by nine year old girl. She said "bread, bread,
father, father, mother, mother, Mary, Mary, Jesus, Jesus,
Kate, Kate, and light, light"

Burnt umber sky shifts faulted crust into sandstone streaks.
Every gasp, sexual moan, at large, with clever gestures
drawn by Monet stripped blind he fingered canvas to put down
tint, value and space where liberty failed. Light was dead.

One last time, two mimes twaddled while another sister
had sex with the an empty spoon until there
wasn’t any pleasure; no ends, --

Then, as birth, crimson cerulean arc of space,
low, at left corner, curved with the day sky
raised by no obvious hand to shape and shadow
palisade walls, five mile high with escarpment
driven down another fifty miles to magma swells.

An infant mesa, broad flat topped reflected easily
renaissance light while Nothing, that ocean of matter
revised, innocent and tangible pushed the ideals
into more than three, four, seven,
eleven simultaneous dimensions .

One answer given for black Immediacy:
I shine for the world to see,
when I slash into that Grand Canyon Gorge
from rivers too tame to matter
given undulating fair sky
saturated with 40 billion souls
receptive to zero mass
and an unpretentious ash
that rains too simple.

I walk about the space, my callused footprints
found whole in the arguments for dark and not.




END