by Brian U. Garrison
(This poem is best viewed on a PC)
We don’t tend to think of earthquakes as pollinators—
the way a bumbling honeybee caressingly blesses
the yellow patch of happiness between bright petals.
Imagine a cupboard of petri dishes, growing their own goo,
self-contained and separated with antiseptic purity.
Ground shakes floors shake walls shake cupboards alive
and the science lab erupts in harmonic cacophony.
So grows the music of the probiotic composting jukebox.
In the breakdown comes rebuilding. There’s fertility
in pregnant pauses between songs where anything is possible.
New sounds screaming with potential or hypnotic wavelengths
pulsing toward a slow flow revolution. No shuffling
through stagnant progressions, just quasi-organized chaos
warping mesmerizing chords. If static white noise
is maximum random, and a pitch pipe’s lonely droning
is perfect stability, this jukebox cooks for Goldilocks.
New sounds bloom, flexible in the wind and scattered
like wildflowers. Tremors topple stacked rocks: castles
crumble, but good shit keeps painting the hillsides
with a palette that draws from every spectrum.
Whether you crave the nose-scratching pungence
of peppery sulfur, whether your transcendence arrives
from kaleidoscopic dizzymaking, or whether you seek
the sweetness of honey, be sure to tune in again.
Brian U. Garrison serves as Secretary for the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association. His poetry has traveled to Mars aboard NASA's MAVEN Mission, to Tuscaloosa, Alabama (among other cities) aboard Asimov's Science Fiction, through the interwebs aboard Word Ways: The Journal of Recreational Linguistics, and to bookshelves aboard his chapbook New Yesterdays, New Tomorrows. He writes and dreams in Portland, OR. See more at www.bugthewriter.com