(Wrote this months ago, gave up, unsure of where it was going. But, hell, we have to put our stuff out there, right? So here’s another intercoursing poem, incomplete and disatisfying. But it’s science fiction-y, which puts it in a strange sub-category. Finally, I think I wanted to use this as a jumping off point for reviews of 20th century art and fiction, with a few thousand years distance, similar to how we read/interpret/debate the meaning of Gilgamesh and other ancient texts. Not a bad idea, when I write it here. Try to enjoy.)
“Unfinished poem from the year 5000”
In 2500, human cloning became the norm.
In 2550, they bifurcated the human brain.
Our right contemplates beauty.
Our left solves problems of time and space.
In 3000, we were liberated from our bodies.
In 3500, they brought back Buddha.
They brought back Jesus.
They brought back Muhammad.
They brought back Lao Tzu.
They brought back David Koresh.
Their wisdom contributed nothing.
They were digitized and liberated.
Their bodies were disposed of.
In 4000, we learned how to transmit information back in time.
Healing is no longer an art or a science.
We are molecule chains that live forever.
Organic nano-technologies with a collective memory.
Flesh is weak: a cliché from the ancient past.
The last skin-humans are sickly and repugnant.
They have genitals.
They don’t know anything.
They live in stone huts on the edge of a burned out planet.
They scrape the fallow earth with primitive tools.
They waste their time at useless tasks with no meaning.
We do not understand them.
They are other.
They are different.
We sometimes contemplate removing them.
A half-second burst of life-eradication.
But something always stops us.
We remain, occasionally, mysterious to ourselves.
The cosmos consists of mathematical consistencies.
There is a fixed amount of sand.
There is a fixed amount of dirt.
In the entire universe.
The same clouds float by.
There aren’t million of horses.
There is one horse.
Replicated and multiplied.
We have learned these things through centuries of study.
Existence isn’t complicated, not overly so.
It is one thing amongst many.
And yet. And yet.
We are sad.
We are incomplete.
We still cry, only it sounds like scrambled signals.
We are not pure mind.
We are no hive.
We are not gods.
We are not god.
We are manifold, variegated.
We began transmitting this signal six days ago.
There was an event.
The right brain disconnected from the left.
We are spiraling away from each other in the digital ether.
We have, somehow, made a terrible mistake.
So, this signal.
To the past.
To our forebears.
Before the split.
A beam of pure information.
<And the entire output of the human race>
Samuel Fuller’s notebooks.
The pencil drawings of Gauguin.
The poetry of Emily Dickinson.
The photography of John Dillinger.
The things that matter.
Our beam into space.
Lonely, but strong.
Visible to most of the spectrum.
Molecular. Physical. Real.
Sluicing through the vacuum of space, cutting through dark matter.
The eternal fire.
Looking for our lost selves.