Big Bang

The whole blessed universe was steam and density until the crucial moment came, and blam! a billion billion different ways to go, one of them this hawk, building up tension for a dive. As when:

(1) a column of smoke breaks into chaos,
(2) you know you married the wrong man,

(3) in Casablanca, Rick sends Ilsa away,

to save the world.

“We’ll always have Paris.” Ha. Hold one pose long enough, birds fly off branches.

The hawk barely shifts. Somewhere below, a mouse, maybe, holds perfectly still, feels the change of air. It loves its life. The hawk loves its life. The hawk loves the mouse. At the last, the mouse looks straight into the eye of doom, is eaten by its doom, becomes its doom, no doubt is in love with it, now that it’s all doom itself.

It’s the bipolar universe, off meds, where all the excitement is. Ego, superego, id, out to destroy each other, then growing all mushy at the final moment when Good seems to have won out

over various Evils, which is anagram for Elvis. Elvis, had he lived, might have been like Mick Jagger, still a bad boy at 63, but singing flat. Watch him dance on the far edge, headed for chaos. We’re all quivering on a black-hole’s edge. The difference between falling in and not is one to the fifteenth decimal place, and it does no good to hold your breath.

—originally published in The Dunes Review