First light through the curtains
I find myself simultaneously
four billion years old
and newly made as bread dough.
Pillowcase wrinkles
on my face are spacetime,
my bed aloft on cosmic riptides.
From here I can see every particle
entangled with every other particle.
From here, reality is infinity
expressed in intricate calculations.
Rus Khomutoff is a neo surrealist language poet in Brooklyn, NY whose poetry has appeared in Erbacce, Occulum, Poethead, Rasputin and Hypnopomp, and in his first book Immaculate Days (Alien Buddha Press). Paradise & Method To Lovebug Starski An exasperated sigh of grammar and spice rendered in haphazard lew vintage wise vanity lactose intolerant daunt a […]
Read more "Paradise & Method"I’m filling my Earl Grey tea cup this morning at work when the weirdest water cooler conversation bubbles up. “Let me ask you a strange question.” I smile nervously, “OK.” “You ever close your eyes and press your fingers into your eyelids?” “Yeah, fireworks light show.” “Exactly!” He flutters his eyes closed and lightly demonstrates […]
Read more "On Floaters and Flashes"
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