Gathering Wood for Bradbury
Fair in height, 451 tall trees with an enormity of loose leaves allowed me to see the world for what it really was. I saw grids, launch pads, bacterial formations. I saw intricate simplicities from the design of daffodils to the correct function of an extraterrestrial larynx. And I watched it all circulate. Bent on challenging and supporting the natural order. Chronicles depicted neo-gothic expenditures, forest treks, diagnostics on the unexplainable creationist chop block. Existence. A carpenter’s self reflection in the waters of a glazy brown marsh.
The passengers on an exclusive interstellar trip to Europa’s Indian Reservation organized alphabetically, chronologically -- and according to the masculinity of voice boxes. The swelling size of wicked wallets.
We forage for tree trunks homing the tenacity to plant seeds never planted before, to bear fruits inconceivable even in grandiosely exotic foreign landscapes. We’ve got nature’s inebriated touch: dream wood pulp, that majestic literary type of gloop. Leaf resonates well.
Sometimes “pioneer” is an insufficient adjective, attachment for praise. My main man, late night storyteller book master, counting the pages until Earthlife is rekindled as organic and flesh-like, fully AWARE of these DNAnachronicities plaguing the depths. Hidden from view until men’s voices grow dignified enough to reach the canopy levels, and hold a torch to it. So birds can listen and humans can find it.
Memories of the T-Rex from “A Sound of Thunder” take up large proximities in my nostalgic data storage, you see. Laboratory physicists must’ve known how expansive Phineas Fogg could be in filling the woodland wilderness with stifling air - science fiction’s oxygen tank.
by our supplied actions.
The verdict is supranational library up keeping.
It's a good way to keep the true characters alive.
In : Poetry