Setaside's Poetry.... if you like...

Strangely Silicon

S trange how most nights are starry nights
and how often they begin with a grain of sand
that shark's tooth in your hand a cut till it bleeds reminder of whether or not one can

it was a starry night and the earth and moon gazed upon one another in a questioning manner
said silicon sliver slides and slips shimmering in the slight silvering luminescence
shapeshifting as the waves from around the globe reach the reef in time to turn back again and again.
a handful glistens and chunks, post mindless sifting, drifts in slow motion crumble to the tide;
the forgetfulness of fascination, shark's teeth and shells and remanants pattering to the sand

men were throwing themselves at the moon

planets swung around watching enthralled,
astounded.

certainly an exit made to appear stellar and perhaps divine
an explosion of fire and thrust and push and shout and jump and swim and pull and fight
the invention of flame never truly theirs
the struggle of self has finally carried beyond the terran rock and into the boundaries of god

the moon sits silently. Man's feet tickle ever so and it is difficult to behave;
she wonders at action and curiosity and celebrates quietly to herself; it is a rare joy.

they have come for the sand in the hand that proves that man
his dreams limited by sight and sight alone
perhaps finally exists beyond the creation that bore him in all its infallible simplicity

the moon and the beach, unblinking in the glow and reflection of one another, borrow time.
moon grabs the tides as a comfort, a holding of earth's liquidity, a grasping of the hand.
beach borrows the silver only moon can provide and threads her worldly weave as the rolling waves change the swatch of brush she applies.

the men examine their handful of god, their fiery fancy of flight finally at an end; a watery downing, a wave and a cushioned floatation...
their fingertips sift and sieve through a bucket of dream and they gape, incredulous, at one another for it has gone drab and grey in the medical glare of fluorescent lights.

a quick step outside reveals the silver that remains hanging in the night sky:
a dollar coin minted, a hematite mantra.
The men smoke silently,
beach secretly molding herself to feet and stealing a feel when she can,
filling in as they leave.
Shark's teeth, well polished by years of travel, a small comfort to those who have touched otherwhere
Realizing at the they last: they were sent for... they had been called.

The moon is a lonely girl wished upon, granting lovers and grace with ne'er a retainer for herself

she, vying for the attentions of glitter beach so long,
the waves her only sensuality...
they looked upon one another, the original romance the worst sort of charade;
kept apart by magnetism and gravity, a love no science could save
and no spirit could connect

how does one throw a kiss across the deepening room, the void spanning lifetimes..?
send the men with their dreams and their star spanning machines and their footprints may sign a love letter long since written and left to drift the tide and on the tide alone

there was once merely one ocean to span and it was of blue and amethyst and of blood red skies.
it was a lonely journey for those who dared, the stars being perceived as cold company.
sailors searched for better sand as a world reached out within itself to reconnect, the foreign land an imaginary charade as it was really all a part of one
self knowledge the hardest and most picaresque of adventures

and so man sets sail again with moon, sea and lover's beach smiling knowing smiles
preparing for the union that only those they have created may bring.

Shark's tooth and abalone shell
iron, nickel, hematite...
a traceless passage of footsteps and fire.
as man reaches deeply without for the self within
two worlds, days apart, unite
and continue their dance-watch of love-oblivion.

we looked for it
we examined it from a far
we measured its existence by thumb and forefinger
eyeing through an encircled hand
we pondered its creation, its construction
was it even cheese? we wondered

we threw stones at its image, drew blood in its gaze
heiroglyphics and archaic symmetry based upon its age
arrows fletched and bows hewn
wars, religions, massive south american constructs spawned
all dedicated to the moon

galileo wrapped some glass in some leather
then brass and copper
he was executed for his observations
and then martyred centuries later

we polished glass in larger and larger aspherical forms
bringing us closer and closer
yet still from a far
the textures were maddening in their circumspect and
inability to communicate the secrets so assuredly hidden there

schmidt-newtonian
schmidt-cassegrain
diffraction
refraction
equatorial push

we discovered the silent flight of hot air
the rotary propeller and the flap
the jet engine and the speed of sound
the rocket engine and its ability to finally take us far enough

yea we throw ourselves at the moon in hopes that angels will catch us
in hopes that perhaps it really IS a god who eats the moon during an eclipse in an effort of metagastroentestinal cleansing
in hopes that there is something out there that may show us... other

the moon.

---

that one isn't so much a poem as it just what was on my mind now... i haven't thought so much about the moon since i used to watch the shuttles launch at night from cape canaveral.... i remember watching the challenger explode and rain debris on my city for weeks and thinking my dreams had died.

i remember watching images of another shuttle break apart on television and think to myself... the future of man is balked again. Two crews of seven dreamers now a part of that which they loved so much.

The future to me is a mass of pathways. I am of the opinion that regardless the way we choose, the path is always linear, as if we truly had no choice at all really.

I am thinking about this alot and wondering what I am to do. I look to the moon... and she is kind to me but she gives no answer. Not the slightest hint.
I used to feel as though I had something in touch with the future, something beyond a vague hint of more... I don't know what happened to that feeling, perhaps it is given only to the children of any given age and, being careless enough to grow up, we lose it as we grow older.

Deja vu... perhaps the remnants of the previous turn on this particular wheel.