This is our time, our turn to skip these blunted stones across the quiet cosmos.
Or else it’s just our encroaching desert I’m happening into—I forget which.
Anyway, on the cover of Scientific American Mind, a mouth model is smiling,
and that seems like real progress. “One must imagine Sisyphus happy,” yes.
Or else it’s just our encroaching desert I’m happening into. I forget which
worked better, but the Hubble was watery-eyed, and then we fixed it.
And that seems like real progress. One must imagine Sisyphus happy, yes,
but this, too, smacks of desperation. The unaccounted particles in space
worked better, but the Hubble was watery-eyed. And then we fixed it:
all our problems could be traced to a leaky gasket beneath the kitchen sink.
But this, too, smacks of desperation, the particles in space, unaccounted,
still. Back on the planet of guesses, fireflies discussed sex using nothing but light,
and all our problems could be traced to a leaky gasket beneath the kitchen sink.
Sadly, this doesn’t mean we’re any more prepared this next time around.
Still, back on the planet of guesses, fireflies discussed sex using nothing but light,
warring with time, as they always have been. And there was time, sniping them.
Sadly, this doesn’t mean I was any more prepared. This next time around
I’d make a real go of it, crunch the numbers, give a heckuva presentation.
I was warring with time, always had been. And there was time, sniping me.
Well at least there was the three day weekend to look forward to. I didn’t know how
I’d make a real go of it, crunch the numbers, give a heckuva presentation.
“Look, Morton, it’s not my report—just slap a letterhead on it, get it done.
At least there’s the three day weekend to look forward to.” I don’t know how.
And the hardest thing isn’t wondering how the thing will end, but knowing that it will.
Look, Morton, it’s not my report—just slap a letterhead on it, get it done.
They’ll try to tell you there’s just one bottom line, in truth there are several.
And the hardest thing isn’t wondering how the thing will end. But knowing that it will
is why I’m standing here in lockstep with the Cornoyer painting. I can’t break away.
They’ll try to tell you there’s just one bottom line. In truth there are several
ways to approach it, at least, just as one either does or does not kill oneself. That
is why I’m standing here in lockstep with the Cornoyer painting. I can’t break away.
We evolved in an environment that predisposes us to green spaces. Many
ways to approach it at least. Just as one either does or does not kill oneself, that
firefly too is thinking to get the job done. Blinks his butt for sex or death, depending.
We evolved in an environment that predisposes us to green spaces. Many
thoughts are in my head at any given moment, scattered, unprepared. This is just one.
A firefly, too, is thinking. To get the job done. Blinks his butt for sex or death, depending.
Anyway, on the cover of Scientific American Mind, a mouth model is smiling.
Thoughts are in my head at any given moment. Scattered. Unprepared. This is just one,
that this is our time, our turn to skip these blunted stones across the quiet cosmos.
Brian Nicolet holds an MFA from the University of Houston and has received scholarships to Bread Loaf and Sewanee writers’ conferences. His poems and reviews have appeared in New South, Gulf Coast, Colorado Review, and Subtropics, among other publications.
