By Rich Ferguson


Be one with the world. One with yourself. One with the tranquility gallery behind your eyes, its humble paintings of peace & prosperity. One with how that gallery is so often under reconstruction, deconstruction. One with how everything is so impermanent, so fleeting. How your every thought breeds Frankensteins & angels. Be one with all your Frankensteins & angels.

Happy Birthday, Universe!

We’re having conniptions
here on Earth. We who flicker
like moths take it upon
ourselves to praise Eternity,

squabbling over what to call it,
burning the others’ metaphors, burning
each other. As if we won’t be gone
fast enough. What could you
possibly think of us, Universe,

in our zany hats? If
you could even see them
on our minuscule heads.
What of our noisy games?
(We’d burn you, too, if we could.)

We like to party.
We like to fight.
We like to circle
around & around & around
your killer light.

There’s a well-known episode of the old “Twilight Zone” series where a book-loving Burgess Meredith sequesters himself in a bank vault so he can enjoy an uninterrupted reading session during his lunch break.  He emerges from the vault to find that while safely underground, nuclear Armageddon killed off the rest of the world, leaving him as the last homo sapiens on the planet.  He finds this a positively delightful result and proceeds forthwith to the library, where he eagerly stacks all the books he plans to read.