White Night of Bliss

“My God, a moment of bliss. Why, isn't that enough for a whole lifetime?― Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights

The tweet of a bird after an earthquake

beautiful in its love... a complete science

between the born and the made,

what a phenomenal intersection–

synchronistic

sweet song left of melancholic.

Counter with the joy of the natives.

fully immersed in the next generation’s grief work,

technologies are the only way out!

layered in the layers,

this moment of bliss a hyper reflexion

back to the mythmakers.

Caught in the boom of before

sonically swimming in the fragmentary, 

into the fire of flux, into the pryrocene 

on the surface of the depth,

earth echolocates searching for intelligence– 

One human witness observed:

birds flew, insects scurried beneath the raccoon.

Running quick and dead with rabbits vacating their space

chickens stopped laying eggs

and goats over fire grass grazed to the next hill

just as bees left their hives. 

North of forty

lines cracked slicing fresh valley–

opening crowd crisis layered to the left

the physics of panic set in.

Now the audible dirty bird

tweets this is his space

over her tectonic daft caged birds

move, fly, crawl,

howl chained dogs...

break free chasing the crowd.

Forming calculated emergent behavior

in the lower south forty,

the cube surrounds

between the born and the made

and the visible rain flooded to mud

with the next drain of her aftershock.

If you have any feelings in this universe

remember you are just a glitch, 

a ghost... the touch of Deja Vu. 

Every wildflower has a reason,

a purpose, intention, aim, goal to put forth.

On return to this festival,

one unlike the other.

white by night– white night, white night!

Two lovers left.

One moment of bliss–