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Why is there anything
rather than nothing?
We do not obey quantum theory.
There is no mathematics that describe us. We practice anti-geometry
(Euclidean and non-Euclidean). Here's what disturbs Schroedinger's
Cat. We have taken away all of the neutrons. The stuff is
de-neutered. It cannot be kept from procreation.
The Very Source of The Elixir.
We are at the place.
The dregs of
the middle of the middle of the middle
of the track-lit
salt-lick smectic-phase
physics and quantum laws thereof,
where one might expect to find
what one might expect to find
between the pages of all those magazines
whose target audience is a target audience,
the formica the formica the wicker couch
the chairs reminiscent of
some movie with that one street-scene in it
reminiscent of Paris or something,
that cafe with those
chairs in it. The beaver dam.
The melting pot mating grounds,
the stomping grounds
the happy hunting.
Habitat, habit, rabbit, babbling-brook
rabblle-rousing
among the absolute snookered
and disenfanchized
faux-grandiose denizens of iniquity.
The place.
Can’t you see it?
The thing that’s always in that place,
with those people. You who
philosophize, who chat and banter,
you with
the style and grace.
With the tricks up your sleeve,
with the sparkle in your joie-de-vivre
with the impression
of the impression of living the so-called life.
Peacock feathers and
the embroidered embroiled and royal insignia
of some grandiloquent academy
over one’s heart,
dancing cadences of delinquent minutiae
and delightful complication,
eating daffodil-flavored candies
and drinking the dandelion wine.
Sparkly-lips spicy
oh
dancing and lovely
women, sugar-lumps pinwheels
and dandelion
wine.
Forever,
forever dandelion wine.
What has happened to you?
It was called the mal du siecle.
With the fall of Napoleon,
Europe found herself somewhat bewildered.
It happened that the je ne sais quois
which had so delighted
the haute couture was now
peculiarly unknown and
unfelt. That which effervesced
in the champagne and effervesced
on the lips of the stylish courtiers
revealed itself to be the beginnings of decay,
a shade away from vinegar,
stale and brackish.
At an un realized moment, somehow,
in the broil of
Napoleon’s campaigns, the whole culture
had . . . lost the Golden fleece.
No one could remember where it was hidden.
Everyone assumed it was safe in the cellar
of this or that European potentate,
but when they looked for it,
when they called upon
their muses they discovered an empty feeling
where they had expected
the flush of raison d’etre.
A whole generation of you people
emerged with half-dissolved ideals
and too much time on their hands.
That crazy . . . animal.
The ornithological remains
of the remaindered odd lots of so many cracked
blocks, blown gaskets, burnt up catalytic,
catalytic sacrifices.
That thing.
That weird creature. Pferdzwackur's Elixir.
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