-thirty-three cycles,
thirty-three rotations,
thirty-three ellipses,
thirty-three complete lunar years,
thirty-three moments of pause to contemplate the y and here…
If each year tells a story, what should it be?
The continuing of some dreamy unaccomplished trajectory.
A script meandering to the tangents which never meet,
plunging the protagonist into some existential angst,
much like the monolithic obstacles which lead to a moratorium
on action, seeking, searching and footfalls of progress,
leaving only footprints of regress.
Eleven times the magic of three, but it gets lost in multiples. Translations and transmutations of understanding and disillusion.
Eleven times the number of stooges, become an unfunny, unruly, uncoordinated mass. A macabre illustration of imitation.
Eleven times the Greek divisions of love, leaving only fragmented breaths of experience in waves of emotion which quickly fade.
Eleven times the states of matter, leaving nothing more than amorphous ether which can neither be classified, categorized or understood.
Eleven times the divisions of divinity, dividing the indivisible and leaving a pantheon of human dust we name god.
The story continues, some stream-of-conscious creation
gathering a concatenation of events, occurrences, experiences
only tangentially related, without a through line.
Situating the protagonist in a similar position
to the unicycle-riding-bear, caught in the space
in between concentric circles, with nowhere else to go
but around again.