“…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
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
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.
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.
Through spinning worlds
one after the other
in an infinite number
Outwards they orbit
like ripples in a puddle
appearing to go farther and farther away.
or comes up
from the ground.
You don’t do it
but you witness the glittering,
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.
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
in murky, toxic
The men and women want to kiss them,
even those who can not sing-
to save 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.
but with one woman
a casted silhouette
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
They are pretty to you.
You don’t know what they are,
but you take a picture.
What happened before our selves had souls?
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
as movement slowly
reaching for light.
Reaching in twilight.
Then reaching for the moon’s silver
pushed to work.
And all worked since then,
everywhere worth noting.”
(c) Drem 2016