Size / / /

Red pulse black pulse blue pulse sound thrums
quantum chance rhythm beats with subatomic
possibilities that pulse up pulse down pulse with

uncountable thousands of divisions in the stream
of time pounding a music of fate beating executing
the most unlikely steps on the gallows of wave

function probability procreation and intertwining
destiny testifying for a hopeless cause resisting
the pulse is like rejecting gravity like swimming

against the undertow of infinity it's best yes
to surrender to move to the rhythm of blood
of heartbeat of breath of desire of impetus to survive

that will which existed before consciousness still
stares out from the space between atoms made
of tones composed in probability scale notes

once compressed in the mote that made the big
band bang the sound that awakened all of everything
strung the cords of existence on the bars of time

and forced the music into pulsing motion

 

Copyright © 2003 Mike Allen

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Mike Allen lives in Roanoke with his wife Anita, two rambunctious puppies, and a cranky old cat. By day, he's a newspaper reporter. In his off-hours, he edits Mythic Delirium, DNA Publications' poetry journal. His poetry and fiction have appeared in Absolute Magnitude, Altair, Weird Tales, and Strange Horizons. He is the author of two poetry collections, Defacing the Moon and the newly-released Petting the Time Shark. His previous publications in Strange Horizons can be found in our Archive. To contact Mike, email hangman@infionline.net.



Mike Allen is president of the Science Fiction Poetry Association and editor of the speculative poetry journal Mythic Delirium. With Roger Dutcher, Mike is also editor of The Alchemy of Stars: Rhysling Award Winners Showcase, which for the first time collects the Rhysling Award-winning poems from 1978 to 2004 in one volume. His newest poetry collection, Disturbing Muses, is out from Prime Books, with a second collection, Strange Wisdoms of the Dead, soon to follow. Mike's poems can also be found in Nebula Awards Showcase 2005, both editions of The 2005 Rhysling Anthology, and the Strange Horizons archives.
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We'd only lived in Arizona four years—it was our retirement place. But I'd died there, and she'd dumped my ashes out in the desert without fanfare, without any poem or prayer, unless you considered, “Jesus, Marty, don't leave me. Why'd you leave me, you old bastard" to be an elegy.
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