Poem By James Murdock
Living on the transrealist day
just floating. But perhaps
re-approaching some crypticism.
There's a dwarf-red, proxima centauri
40 trillion kilometers from the farm.
Peach trees fruit in early June.
Little red speck, distant balloon
on top a propagated galaxy,900
billion planets spin. They say today
the soil of one is scarlet, and grows
with arms of creeping ferns like no
plant-animal we've imagined. Post-
post-knowledge, post-empathy, post-
to be in an actual place. These worlds
are strutting like hard-chinned females
running streets in Brooklyn or south
Atlanta or New Orleans. Forever I love
Atlanta! And I dream of planets adorned
by root-cracked sidewalks, myrtle pedals
that dance down onto my shoulders
and burning bushes of blazing flame
azaleas like where the piedmont
touches doorways to hemlocks.
My closest sweet memories are of
tight-vested bohemians I know there
with wild turquoise bracelets slipped
halfway down their olive arms, riding
in eternal minds on a blue stupor
at midnight, cigarette smoke
drowning the pollution
of ten-thousand streetlamps.
They are staring into space,