Ode to a Graph

Up it goes,

shrieking beyond break-point,

a cosmic monstrous bomb,

the muck of ages falling to earth ashlike,

before the guillotine momentum of a wizened drunk-driver comes to Mauerfall.

Crisis-turned-sepulcher,

palimpsest of Old-World dreamings,

hunks of concrete shattering,

laid to rest in a tomb

of frigid, dead digits,

reduced to fine powder

for the ghost of Plato

to play with in his etch-a-sketch.

When the cataclysm comes,

a choking cloud of sexless hydrogen configured

as quicksilver aggregation of anthracite

and machine-cut ecstasy,

will we hear it?

It

of docile complexity

and horrifyingly simple factuality.

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