Subatomic Static

Christopher Tower

When electro-acoustic current juiced earthward,
          our ears flowered open into sound swarms,
                 thick, fragrant, reeking.

When our aural caresses ignited numinous rhythms,
          we tried to hold tightly the billowing,
                   hypnotic fog.
                            Shimmering, spidery, emerging.

Listen as if being told a secret.
Refactor the download.
Splice the framework.
Orient the objects.
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Part of every day,
          bytes, volumes, and data mines
                    snarl and fuse inside of us,
and we must rest for a time
       to offload, onramp,
                           and mirror the neo-Fourth World.

When we reboot from hibernate,
          we burn like telemorphic statues
                    fogging loose on a glacier
of electric gas.

And when we recover from full shut down,
         we see too soon the spectral
                   horizon decoupling.
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              And so, we float down, lingering
                     in the subatomic landscape because
                                        information does not want to be free,
              and sometimes, we hear the bubbling
                     of opening spores,
                              what music will sound like
                                                          in the world to come. 

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