Cosmology Blue

Genesis 1:1: In the beginning, God created the Heavens and the Earth.

no more 
like bubbling gold 
it is a spiral, 
a heliotrope,
a green-gold nova, a spiritual hiatus.

God’s firmament is not ready 
for these peaks and dells 
of electricity where beauty houses
boredom and hate forms neon lines in the nothingness.

It is contemptuous, the firmament, of beauty — 
shamed because of the laws it is bound to — 
without the consideration of time, or even, function. 
It frowns and toils and eyes the space that there is so much to fill

with nothing.

A moment: a center 
is pushed to its own rims involuntarily, destroyed 
by its own self-ravishing. It turns. 
It spins and hops, is caught in time, obliged 
to the mousetrap of logic.

God finally speaks, sighing, 
“There is too much authority in perpetual motion.”

Is the world this, then?

No.

Our sun is mixed and beaten a glowing, indecisive red.

It buzzes, a silent rooftop where the little birds of heat sleep with beaks tucked into gullets. Our moon is born of malachite, lopped off from the head of a hot matchstick. Lustrous copper to ashen white, it frowns into its blue. A mirror is laid upon its back, where the little handmaiden to the sister-whore watches unhappily. The skies are filled somewhere else.

The seas come to earth as wayward comets barrage and kiss the fleshy and uncompressed dung heap.

The new and greedy mother opens her arms in cloddy space to rising steam, smoke sets in the heavens and twirls like a gypsy’s candied hips above the vermillion sulfur-shoots.

Everything is quieted then.

A green leaf breaks through the dross.

Smokefog dances like sex drips.

There is a runnel and then the Mighty River Thymus.

Clouds with russet embers breathe and cope with the cool air here.

Protozoa, then somewhere else,

lightning flashes for the first time in eight trillion years.

Man is born a swampdog, an amino pussbag of hormones and high hopes in the mucky clock. He dances up from ragweed, flag-stamps and names the stars.

The dialog with heaven’s veering process begins,

then ends,

silenced with a clap of thunder.

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