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| Artwork by David Damour* |
Antikythera Mechanism
Perhaps I am a
Antikythera Mechanism,
rusted,
broken, forgotten,
like the tubes
of the
mighty
Colossus Mark 2,
disassembled
and
decommissioned
like
Alan Turing
himself.
I am a
punch card
from the
room-sized
mainframe
days:
a forgotten
relic
technology
from a
different
time.
Trauma curves
my mind into a
Calabri-Yau
manifold,
a quantum
shape
that twists
and turns
upon itself in
ways
I barely
comprehend.
It is a knot
that
complicates my
mind.
I must
untangle
it somehow,
but
I have no map
of
what it should
look like, nor
any personal
geometry
to rely upon.
I am a ghost
particle
that decays
quickly.
Gravity binds
me
to the black
hole’s
singularity.
Jets of
energy,
the universe’s most
exact clock,
spins like a
top.
Millions of
tachyons
go backwards
in time,
carrying me
with them.
In the formal
dining room,
the
grandfather
clock fails to
strike
seven o’clock,
and even the
coo-coo bird
goes back
inside
to hide.
I must face
my manifolds,
my knots,
my mind
slowly,
delicately,
deliberately.
Can I unravel
the knots
before I
unravel myself?
Metamorphosis
(for Kristin Pennington)
Duhkha
Pain festers:
A terrible
infection
throughout my
body,
pulsing in
agony,
pus-filled
abscesses,
acne on my
balls.
I transform
into something
from Kafka
or Burroughs.
I become a
bug,
a cockroach,
a talking
asshole,
that lives in
the
darkness of
my own mind.
All the while
waiting for
someone to
tell me I am
worthy of
my own
humanity.
I want to ease
my suffering,
but it lingers
still.
My coping
mechanisms are
ineffective.
I need a
surgeon
to cut deep
inside
and remove the
dead flesh
that will
never heal.
Dammit,
everyone
changes
as the years
go by,
even you and
I,
but the
violence
in our minds
does not
subside
until we find
solace.
Yet even when
I do calm
down, I
fear I’m in the
eye of the
storm,
and that there
is
another
destructive
hurricane on
the
horizon.
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