"Huxley held hostage on the cosmic shoreline"

Watched the Search for Spock earlier tonight. Spock was in heat. You know the one where he gets all emotional and cant handle it? Yeah I feel like I could break down and cry like that sometimes too. Science fiction makes me think. And when I think of the science fiction noble this is what is going through mi tiny little wee mind: a book whose time may soon be at hand for someone to write and really flesh out the ideas of what the future of space trvel may have in store for us all. A Noah's arc,but more. Just trying to grab at a few lines of this dream and it sift through my conscious brain like sand through a clinched fist. Heck I want to be the next AC Clarke or something. That would be nice, I think.

So this is one of my truly "Birdiest" poems of all time. Its so far out that it kind of hurts to admit that I came up with some original ideas and plots for a novel on the subject. It has been percolating through the rock hard head on yours truly shoulders by electronic music and comparative religions and an inner journey that took years and caused a lot of sweat. I'm not falling for the pseudo science of astro-archaeology but what a great thing that I must not be completely crazy because a lot of other people have had similar ideas occur to them.

So I invite you to read this glimpse into the future and the past of science fiction with me. Laugh cry throw up your arms in apathy. Here is a poem synopsis of a book I am really attempting to develop and capture on paper sometime before I draw my last breath.


"Huxley held hostage by infants on the cosmic shoreline: a surreal poem about space travel"

It was a long way to go
And knowing nothing when we arrived
Made getting back to where we belong
The highest priority
Only, which way is home now

Traveling across time
A rose dropped into deep
Ocean water in the dead night
Preserved forever in icy depths
Like traumatic stretching of the soul

Washed in the cold of interstellar nothingness
Sunlight peels across Lenny's skin
For the first time since he awoke
In a vat of A++ juice and he kicked the transparent aluminum
Of his artificial mother's metallic uterus from the inside

the brave new world approached by a gang of proto-humanoid infants
through the dark of science fiction space
No language yet embedded in their blank slate minds
No knowledge of anything that came before this moment
the gift of a now long dead culture
to versions of hope and the wisdom of a basket
In a river of gravity on its way to a younger planet
In the Goldilocks Zone

robot missions
report humanity is already there. where did we come from where are we going?
on that red 4th marble that gets a little bigger each passing day
The gravity lens turbulence faded out on this side of ringed giants and the asteroid belt
And tumbled out its living cargo
Back into our limited four dimensional sandbox

Why does it always work out like this:
Sans all memory organic or otherwise
The secrets of their origins lost in a dice game
with God and his 12 Higgs particles
In the spaces between the stars
Memories and instructions stolen and discarded by nature
And left for sentient luck and forces of the universe
To fill in the fresco plasterings of intelligence
where it is needed by nature across all creation

Like a virgin sacrificed to a volcano
The orphan spacecraft with amnesia
May be enough to placate the infinite replications
Of strings across dimensions of foaming
Subatomic demons playing a tug of war
Against a galactic ebb and flow lumpiness named Gravity
The heat of the expanding universe
Can only be measured in degree of emotional force
The grandest scheme of interlacing economies of energy
traces pathways between electromagnetism and the faster than light.

That day the bridges of tachyons became visible
Illuminated in the spectral unobtainium
Lacing up the constellations in
Patterns mysteriously familiar, to all but the unaided eye.

Homing pigeons falling outta the sky dead on top of the
Ocean going vessels of Polynesians journeying in wicker boats
Watching the stars for signs of Life and Order
Between the spaces of the stars.
When the time is right we all dream ourselves awake.

(Now Im outta gas. To sleep and dream some more about this until it is time to do more than outline my curiosity in a poem to be read by strangers and friends. Creative visualizations about novel-ism in American science fiction and conjecture here the water is much more comfortable than on my own website. I wonder why that is/? Oh well, as Eno composes: "Here come the warm jets")