The Stardust Time Traveler, a poem/story by Drem

“…from the ivory trade days to the nights of dealing ecstasy in neon stained cotton tees…”

When I got this it was completely all over the place and originally called Miracle. I am putting it into something somewhat coherent. Who knows what the fuck was going on in my life that I came out with this. I think I was reading a lot of Stephen Baxter. Or, this could have been when I discovered Stargate. I can’t quite remember…


 

The Stardust Time Traveler, a poem by Drem

Written July 16, 2010 with adjustments made March 16th, 2016

 

“Not quite a moment, this is.

Less than a second

as your breath moves quickly

through the torments of history.

You’re flying through it all

halting only

to debate a page in a fable,

and then to hear the complaints of calculations about payroll.

It’s not your company

but it’s important to record this

nonetheless.

multiverse

You see what’s yet to happen.

What’s next to see

from the ivory trade days

to the nights of dealing ecstasy

in neon stained cotton tees.

You see them roll the dough out.

Given to the boys- lowly pay.

It raises the big one’s status

and he hordes his money in a safe.

It always seems to be the same.

20110205_automaton600_417-550x382

You’re the one made of stardust,

with pockets of gold as your baggage.

During glaring days

from a sun’s dazzling rays

you look like a collection

of old cellular junk

from the junkyard

of my galaxy.

There are satellites,

red, white and blue rockets

and windows from ships of other species.

time_traveler___fractal_art_by_ikill_animation-d4wnxpb

Through spinning worlds

one after the other

succinctly

they twirl

in an infinite number

of possibilities.

Outwards they orbit

like ripples in a puddle

appearing to go farther and farther away.

Water, water

falls down

or comes up

from the ground.

You don’t do it

but you witness the glittering,

translucent

miraculous thing

As it’s dispersed to the parishioners

who want their crying hearts

to be raised above the salty sea

and to nourish the cracks of the dried soil.

il_570xN.411083164_lvnb.jpg

Those men and women drink

and go under the gravel and under the rocks

to find heartbroken kinsmen

or the remains therein.

Beneath the deep

green ocean

in murky, toxic

plastic muck.

The men and women want to kiss them,

even them,

even those who can not sing-

to save them,

even them,

because those are victims who only lost their way.

And you record

the miracles of compassion here.

The flattened fragile pebbles

are now filled with homes for creatures.

They were once used as spears or hand swords.

Now they lay silently in the sea.

You remember, you remember

the before and now the after.

Once to stop a beating a heart

with one stab to the chest,

the same rock is a home

to a family of barnacles next to a nest of seahorses.

These horses don’t need armor

to protect from mighty blows.

No, they’re safe next to the rock

that once caused many mighty bloody blows.

And you record the history of this transformation.

The sun you visit now

is like the others you have seen.

It doesn’t allow a footprint to be permanently made

into hard sediments

unless the weight is substantial,

or there are cracks way down below

that cause a shift.

This sun, like others, permits shadows.

Bright, bright

but with one woman

a casted silhouette

temporarily

will bring night to the day.

You like the relief.

And you like the paintings the woman makes.

They are just lines.

Connected to each other.

Forming things of her world

through her eyes

conceived in her mind

through perception.

They are pretty to you.

You don’t know what they are,

but you take a picture.

maxresdefault

What happened before our selves had souls?

The pre-silence?

The short period of creation in beta.

Was it actually a long period?

Before we were puppets

ruled by chance

and stern grips

of gripes and grudges– memories,

and iron hailing from the sky

and the clouds not yet beautiful.

What was it like, traveler?

The oldest known

is recorded

as movement slowly

reaching for light.

Reaching in twilight.

Then reaching for the moon’s silver

something.

Unknown names.

No words.

But lungs

pushed to work.

And all worked since then,

everywhere worth noting.”

(c) Drem 2016

http://www.ArtOfDrem.com

 


Share Your Thoughts

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s