poem02 Apr 2018 08:53 am

Some call it the Nexus,
others call it the Void,
but for us it’s simply the Transfer Station.
It’s the one place in the Universe
where all the garbage gathers,
the light and the dark,
the material and immaterial,
the cast off and the cast out,
the aimless bits of solar wind-blown debris
and lost souls hoping to catch a glimpse
of the infinite, before the refrigerator door closes
and the light goes out.

But just because the light goes out
doesn’t mean one ceases to exist—to the contrary.
The Transfer Station takes matter,
whether it matters or not,
and transforms it into something new:
a planet, a star, an automobile.
There’s no rhyme or reason,
only the perpetuation of what was
into what will become.
A galaxy, a refrigerator, an infant child—
the list goes on, both past and future.
No one can possibly know the outcome
of such a random afterthought.

But you can’t accept that can you?
Of all creations you are the only ones
who question your station in life.
But then maybe that is your gift,
and why you will continue to wash up
on our cluttered shore,
bruised and battered yet not defeated,
resisting the inevitable
even when you know the inevitable must be;
clinging the way a dying star shakes its fists,
displaying the brilliance of its anger
across the blackboard of the cosmos.

But judge not the intent or purpose
lest we be judged on the purpose of our intent.
Don’t bother looking that one up,
you won’t find it.
Just know that we here at the Transfer Station,
where nothing is ever wasted
and nothing ever is a waste,
take a special pleasure in taking you in
and turning you out,
making your transition
as meaningful as possible,
knowing you will never admire us
the way we have come to admire you.

Illustration is il fegato è il pettine del gallo by Arshile Gorky, 1944 in the Albright-Knox Gallery.

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