Here at the Vermont Studio Center for my two week residency, and I am overjoyed. I think I may become an artist colony junkie. It is like being in a parallel universe where art is actually considered a full time, viable job. So far I have been writing on and off, after my first few days here fighting my jet lag, finding my luggage, and coming down with the flu.
Here are a few new prose poems in process:
What Happens to Poetry in a Black Hole?
It becomes more intense because neither matter nor energy can escape. Black holes eat words, organized matter, and spit out random noise. Black holes are made of poetry, and snow smuggled from the North Pole. The information held in a poem is a paradox. It cannot be destroyed but neither can it exist. Confident supergenuises are convinced they are right. But Physicists are skeptical that poets can discern the singularity at the heart of a black hole. Some people reverse their words, or fall into a singularity and get lost. They become poetry, until their information begins to leak out, though no one can explain why or how this happens. The universe sometimes follows the rules of a Baseball Encyclopedia, where information can be retrieved at will if you choose to understand it. The poetry that becomes white noise tends to be accepted grudgingly. Scientists read it and stated in their report, “It is possible to be wrong more than twice.”
How Come Poetry Can’t Regrow Body Parts?
Slice though your finger with a piece of sharp poetry, or nail yourself to the wall with a bon mot and chances are that pieces of your body will become gangrenous and fall off. Poetry is no match for the salamander, who can grow new parts with very little fuss or concern. Why is poetry so weak in the face of science? Why are words no match for immortality? When poets are wounded, skin, muscle and blood vessels revert to their undifferentiated states. They form spongy masses and their cells go back in time to retrace their memories to assemble a new sentence or group of words. As embryos, poets grew arms, legs, lungs, and a heart with no problem whatsoever, yet they are unable to truly repair damage. Only the liver, sometimes abused in a state of angst, or pickled by patronage to a local watering hole, shows any flexibility. But on the whole, poetry does not have the regenerative pathways to assemble new body parts. Poets think that the reason for this is that sprouting new words at a rapid rate looks a lot like cancer. The longevity of our words makes poets vulnerable to accumulations and roadblocks. Scientists need to work with poets to figure out to override language in order to divert stop signs without sparking a malignant rampage.