The Spectacle of Space

The brush of memory across the 
skin in the morning
softly coaxes
longing from the will.

Coffee cooking in a pot
bombing senses with 
iterative nostalgia.

You’re now a facsimile of adulthood
and you embrace this phase
with enthusiasm.

Now you seriously iron your clothes.
Now you cordially drag 
a razor across your face.

Could it be 
the World
spins round
an axis
of remission?

Over & Over 
we dive into
baked with premonitions
of children
we are responsible for,
Saying to ourselves
“I won’t make the
same mistakes
they made.”

Sunshine hits our planet
no matter 
what horrendous mistakes
we make.

There is nothing significant
about this,
but I figured it’s as good
a reminder
as any,
in this little poem.

There are two hairs growing between the distal interphalangeal and
proximal interphalangeal joints on 
my right thumb.

There are no hairs on the chiral
space of my other thumb.

Now I don’t believe in omens
but I do find this fact peculiar.

Maybe this is a measurable indicator
that I am not yet a full grown human being.
By measures like these, I likely 
never will be.

The milieu of my culture
and society is as dense as yours, I’ve heard.
And as I pass through this
gel of slang
my hope to 
coexist with you
rests on the merits
of that idea,
that we’re not that 
different after all.

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The spectacle of space has an effect
on us that is the opposite of emergent,
and not immersive either.

The spectacle of space is the 
sort of experience that moves from the
outer limits of embodied identity into
the deepest core of sensual existence.

The spectacle of space carries 
code that inculcates consciousness
to direct agency in a way such that 
the illusion of absolute movement drives
the illusion the agent has control.

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