Some names I remember.
Some churn like heavy broth in the mix-master,
blend with the high alcoholic content
of a drink, or the DJ’s deft beat.
That First Life is a big white lie,
except for the innuendos,
but one tends to forget the interplay
of figures
that once were real
and had real meaning.
Instead is the illusion of creatures dancing,
styled by Callot, or Peter Breugel.
Here, though, we lurch through post-modern
versions of the Comedia,
masques of people miming intelligence,
spouting illusions of the universe in which
a broad band of planets and acquaintances circle
in abstract elliptical orbits around them.
It need not be real.
It is Euclidian, a kind of geometry
that must, with the deepest of breaths, be visualized,
if it is not to be degraded, debased, devolved
into a tangled sticky skein
of fractal chaos, whose pressure
upon this chest will be misinterpreted
as ischemia.