Friday, July 21, 2017

About Science

The density of objects
activations in space
voids within them as
they spin, a thousand
invisible quanta
things only made real
by thought, by a sort
of faith that our
math can go where
our eyes cannot, that
our minds can transcend
what we can behold

But will we, sat at our
cluttered desks in ill-lit
basement rooms as the noise
of a water heater ticks and
a central heating unit exhales
its stale breath upon us--will
we behold something that can,
in any real way, transcend all
that our minds have always
guessed, or will we be unable to
go where the flawed calculations
of our mathematics gives way to
faith, to thoughts untethered and
unsorted, the quanta of our
dreams haunting us, invisible as
the ghosts of extirpated species,
just voids within that shared heart
we pass between us, that communicable
desire that arises from the void,
that unfilled and deactivated space,
that question - are we no more than objects?
Do any of our actions or assertions amount
to more than a tumbling particle within the
vastness of a cold universe?

Patrick M. Tracy

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Somewhere Beyond the Wheel

A Haibun

The sound of the hawk’s talons as they click against the cement floor is sharp and crisp. The raptor moves carefully, head ducking, hard eyes scanning the empty and leaf-ridden floor of the abandoned factory floor. She studies the rusting press machine that once stamped steel into shape, her barred feathers shivering then going smooth. So effortless while in flight, she is tentative and shy upon the ground, hopping over the remainder of box end wrench. She hears the rustle of a rodent in the dark corner of the arching metal-sided structure, her whole body galvanized, her beak swinging unerringly toward the sound.

Exploding into the dim vault of the superstructure, the pounding of her wings echoes across the silent remnant of the production line. She dips, hearing the last, interrupted squeak of her quarry as her talons pierce it, crushing it to her smooth belly and bearing it aloft. The long, bright aperture of the loading dock door allows her to burst back into nature, into the tentative resurgence of sapling trees and brambles as they tear their slow holes in the broken pavement. The far treeline at the edge of the untraveled road allows her to disappear, to find a high, safe place above the ground. She holds the rodent against a tree limb, her beak partially open, her breath coming across a thin, pink tongue as she prepares to duck her head for the meal. There are no more white, crossing lines in the sky, no more strange drones and humming. The raptor doesn’t think about this, doesn’t reckon it. She simply is, the tip of her beak red now with blood.

Echoing empty
Ghosts of manufactured things
A song long finished

All the timid things
Called back from far horizons
After titans fall

All these mighty works
Just scars upon the darkened
Immortal beast’s flank

Where travels the wind?
What use, these songs, long ended?
Words, with none to read?

Patrick M. Tracy


Monday, June 19, 2017

From the Screaming of the Gears

The null space behind
what we thought was going
to be our lives, those
strange and dusty storage rooms
outside of time and distance
where we wander for years,
half lost and wondering what
door we went through to get
to such a place,

And there are no mirrors
there to see yourself, what
you have become and how it has
diverged from your dreams,
how you have become a stranger
to yourself, a ragged wanderer
with far-off eyes and a nervous
twitch, ears ringing in the
constant tone of seared nerves
from the screaming of the
gears of the machine we
have driven down into deep
holes in the night

And we walk out into the
dusty last gasp of daylight after
eons in darkness, pallid oddities
unknown and believed to be extinct,
living fossils to those we once knew,
squinting into the sky
we'd half forgotten in our
time as troglodytes, our time
as prisoners in the subterranean
corridors between where we
aspired to be and where we

We, the sinners not yet damned

We, broken but not quite ruined

We, who have survived somehow and come
through the other side of the storm, still
almost us, still almost okay.

Patrick M. Tracy

About Science

The density of objects activations in space voids within them as they spin, a thousand invisible quanta things only made real b...