The unchartable direction of history
Plates
All revolutions leave their mark in the soft firmament of dreams; the sonar cycle, the gristle-stone against which energy is absorbed, expended and then bounced precociously against impossibly dense surfaces. This palette, whether made of tea leaves, pig entrails, or hot molten collapsing heaps of steel, is mere fodder against which the art of prediction is tested. Inevitable transformations thus articulate themselves through the completion of gratuitous acts, even if the acts are just the unfolding of an epoch of economic history rather than the assassins bullet, or the bomb, or perhaps an intertwining of all 3 at the point of least visibility; a plausible deniability accorded to the etiologies of complex events that would otherwise remain knotted into convoluted byzantine scenarios; which, are then transformed into believable but inaccurate concatenations of historically comprehensible chains of barely credible causalities. This is how myths are to be unraveled at the very edges of time, but only in those regions where omniscient beings are able to grasp the exponential layers of complexity which form an entropic glaze over events—one that inevitably slows them down, until the very scaffolding upon which time rocks uneasily comes to a halt as its contents slide right towards its edges into a void within which there is no gravity; and, only the reassurance of continuous and distorted echoes remaining at the end of the cycle to remind whoever is left that nothing can be lost or removed from the sliding plates of history permanently, only altered so that it may reformulate itself as yet another thesis which tries to feign innocence in its explanation of the true entropy that pushes change towards the subduction zones of complete transformation.
JZRothstein 8/9/2012 (final edit 6/30/2013)
Poetry by Jeffrey Z Rothstein
Read 527 times
Written on 2013-09-30 at 18:38
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Sonar Table
Plates
All revolutions leave their mark in the soft firmament of dreams; the sonar cycle, the gristle-stone against which energy is absorbed, expended and then bounced precociously against impossibly dense surfaces. This palette, whether made of tea leaves, pig entrails, or hot molten collapsing heaps of steel, is mere fodder against which the art of prediction is tested. Inevitable transformations thus articulate themselves through the completion of gratuitous acts, even if the acts are just the unfolding of an epoch of economic history rather than the assassins bullet, or the bomb, or perhaps an intertwining of all 3 at the point of least visibility; a plausible deniability accorded to the etiologies of complex events that would otherwise remain knotted into convoluted byzantine scenarios; which, are then transformed into believable but inaccurate concatenations of historically comprehensible chains of barely credible causalities. This is how myths are to be unraveled at the very edges of time, but only in those regions where omniscient beings are able to grasp the exponential layers of complexity which form an entropic glaze over events—one that inevitably slows them down, until the very scaffolding upon which time rocks uneasily comes to a halt as its contents slide right towards its edges into a void within which there is no gravity; and, only the reassurance of continuous and distorted echoes remaining at the end of the cycle to remind whoever is left that nothing can be lost or removed from the sliding plates of history permanently, only altered so that it may reformulate itself as yet another thesis which tries to feign innocence in its explanation of the true entropy that pushes change towards the subduction zones of complete transformation.
JZRothstein 8/9/2012 (final edit 6/30/2013)
Poetry by Jeffrey Z Rothstein
Read 527 times
Written on 2013-09-30 at 18:38
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text