The Last Syllable of Recorded Time



Perhaps I will know

when the final moment

reveals itself

and then tumbles

as a last breath

from my mouth.


All of history

Is in that moment.


Everything gathered,

and everything stolen...

it will all be there

in the ever-spoken Word.


This is the last syllable

of recorded time.


Is it a stone from a stone fruit

thrown into the gasping mouth of a well.

Falling evermore toward the bottom,

it speaks as a single collective thought.


Oh, you are there

and I am too,

collected in the zeros and ones,

calcified like bone and

squeezed into a bubble.


…bubbled up and calcified 

You 

from me.

WWWWWWWWWWWWW


The relics

of all 

formed from the we.

Hide now

in a different

tense—

spoken secretly.


(Not past,

not present,

not future.)


Our binary brains

can never explain

the syllable strain

of that final moment.


Within the orb,

the particles collapsed.

Every particle—

under the weight

of underwater pressure.


A force compelled

a kinetic collision

that formed the core

of everything.



In this space,

every particle stays the same,

The elongation

in smoking mirrors.


Every particle created

in the expansion

is now drawn inward,

compounded

to set

on the head of a pin

upon which the universe fits.


When the Big Bang reverses,

the Big Crunch begins.


Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Do it again.


The basic law of gravity unfolds

exponentially—

the retrograde force

unbuckles the web

of planetary orbits

in the underwater pressure.


Within this space,

every particle transforms

in the crucible—

where every single molecule

phenomenologically redefines

the meaning of a cosine

in this new G.


Let G = 01g/e.


While the molecular melding mixed,

they remained aware.


After the cycle of each Bang,

an equally big retrograde

draws inward,

back to the pin-point

of an incarnated universe—

broken down

to a grain of sand.


Breathe in.

Breathe out.


Swept up,

every particle

in the incarnated universe…


The Big Bang broke down,

happened again and again,

when the Big Bang

happens again.


So they hide in their place

and await the decoding

that allows the probable inevitability.


While fishermen

stand on the reef at that moment

when the Mountain moves—

and the bubble from the void

crests the surface—

and ushers a key

that looks like an 8.


We’ve done this before.

We’ll do it again.


Those who are chosen

are muttering in the park,

claiming to see God.


They’ve recognized the scribes

and the Pharisees,

having always

hidden the words

of the prophets.


Meanwhile,

we all can see

a tinker’s damn

is a foregone conclusion.


We all will die,

but technology will survive.


Even if the technology

is alive

in the Big Bang

that happens after

the Big Bang

that happened after

the Big Bang we know—


somehow,

some technology

will figure out a way

to decode the molecules

you even now emit.


Somewhere,

someone

will profit from this.


Somewhere in the lines

signed in the release,

the contract grants your past

for their pleasures.


You are the frozen Neanderthal corpse

pulled from the tundra—

extracted,

revived.


This was the Judgment Day

we heard about.


Technology is exponential.

If left undisturbed,

the bridge will be built.


Your life,

like a baseball card—

collected

and traded.


Endless.

Pulled back to the evermore.


We are commodities

for lesser gods,

ripened in factory farms,

slaughtered in masses.


Every emotion—

I

bled

from the space

we once occupied.


None of this ends.


When you awaken

in the moment

of every man’s merging—

the singular

will

feed those lesser gods.


Men who walked the earth

will form into marble,

and we will stand

in statuary

in some monster’s garden.


You don’t get it.

You can’t get it.

You shouldn’t get it.

But you do.


I speak in metaphor

to give you a truth—

to let it edge its way

into the garden.


Ignore the figure 8

in a 360 VR world.


We are the living—

come back

from the dead.

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