eleven 143

Infinity is a place called now

Not the pitiful version of now

your grid is capable of running

nor the now served up by

any of your so called experts

in the field of time n’ space

motor kinetics...

nope, none of that even vaguely

approaches the ineffable

lurking... hiding from sight

beneath the grim exterior

of a regular Joe convincing the world,

himself included, that he's just

a regular Joe and that now’s just

a constant blip in the data stream

of what is apparently what

apparently

 a thought-to-be

a knowable-unknown

me kids you not (in parentheses)

until now flips itself back to

not what i is able to describe

grammatically amid grids

in a world of things bumping into

things indefinitely

The End – little joke, little irony

for who would bear

the whips and scorns of time,

th'oppressor's wrong,

the proud man's contumely

 to name but a few,

who?

I'm on a journey, a quest

and danger lurketh there and there

And here observe the narrative thread

endeavouring to wrap itself around

my pale, unprotected neck

The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th'unworthy takes

Fool, you imagine you can escape

the gravitational pull, the lure

the implacable logic of your substitution grid

do you?

Dream on you crazy diamond

dream onny on

allowing yourself to experience the non

sequitur – when he himself might his quietus

 make with a bare bodkin? or so we’re told

told

 told

until we hear no more

until...

  suddenly we realise

the grid was never more

than a willing acceptance, an unwillingness

to experience, to explore

the narrative stream unblocked,

the data 

   raw and ready to take me

to a place called

now

to die, to sleep

and test the hypothesis

empirically

nota bene one

nota bene two

nota bene three

what is unstated

is

no less

Plot

Cunning

Action

Murder mystery

Template

Spheres

of closely guarded intent

never quite revealed

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