On Bikes and their Shadows, Stravinsky and God

Oh the piled-up amalgam random density of you –

the ineluctably voluptuous propensity in you to suck

up my attention – affix it to the mix of palpability

and sleight-of-hand you conjure out of shadow, sun

and the ineffable contraption in which you, in your

materiality with it, have now begun to fit – a busy

immateriality which has the dizzy force of vision

of the patently impossible; cue the soundtrack

of Stravinsky ducking and conducting, fucking with us

in his sly exquisite takes on late baroque: his Pulcinella

Suite expertly brandished like a sequined glove:

tonal as all get-out but with just enough uneasy shoves

and chokes and slices, scrapes and stabs to act as

ominous reminders that we are far crazier than Pergolesi,

verging on the dissonant emergence of the truly alien:

this ridiculous improbability we are! These shadows

meld with metal and the light as if the gift of sight

that they incite were quite the most alarmingly

disarming biotechnological discovery whatever God is

somehow stumbled into last (“if they can see, what

do they need with Me?”): vast proof that everything

in fact is just exactly what it seems: the squalling

wriggling progeny of dreams dreamed up by air.

You got me there, you bicycle shenanigans, you

tricksters of effects, of here/not here, of how and when

to disappear or reappear, all transmutation undetected.

I guess you’re pretty much what I expected.

And now that we can see, has “God” ceased to be

the way he parenthetically suggested he would do?

If I were God, that would have been my wish come true.

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