God's breath

The Oh-My-God particle

was an ultra-high-energy

cosmic ray detected

on October 15th, 1991

by the Fly's Eye camera

at the US Army Dugway

Proving Ground, in Utah.

As of 2023, it is the

highest-energy cosmic ray

ever observed. A single particle

with the energy equivalent

to a baseball falling toward

the centerfield fence

at fifty-six miles per hour.

Easy catch for the Say Hey Kid!.

When lower energy particles,

flung by the Sun’s stormy eruptions

collide with our atmospheric gases

they get pushed and sculpted

by Earth’s magnetic field.

The result is the shimmering

green and purple curtains

or cloven tongues of fire

of the Aurora Borealis

dancing above the polar sky.

The cosmic wind released

from the furnace of the sun

and Cassiopeia’s dying breath

spawn the cosmic gift,

the photons and nuclei,

the building blocks of flesh

and blood and bone.

Fish and fowl, frogs

and flowering trees;

butterflies sipping nectar.

God’s breath gave life

to the dust that became Adam,

the atoms of carbon, calcium,

iron and oxygen, themselves

the breath and ashes of stars.

When Jesus breathed

on the twelve disciples

he called it the Holy Spirit

and charged them to spread

the spirit in his name.

When T. Rex wasn't quite extinct

I can hear the song,

T.Rex pumping out

the door:

the pelvic thrust

“You’re so sweet,

you’re so fine.

I want your all and ev’rything

just to be mine…

But the doorman

at the entrance to the club

says nicht GIs, no GIs.

He’s all fashioned-up

in a powder blue

bell bottomed suit

and wide-collared shirt

open at the throat.

I’m not quite so disco,

at least I'm not wearing jeans.

I’ve been mistaken

at times for Italian.

But not tonight.

I say, OK, I know you

don’t want trouble,

I’m not like that,

I know how to behave,

be polite, respectful.

He won’t look me in the eye.

Nicht GIs, no GIs.

I could try to pretend to be

a tourist, from Vancouver

if I had the right haircut.

But I’ve been emulating

my literary hero, Samuel Beckett

with buzzed sides and spiky top.

My grandpa Smith

had hair like that too

in the 30s. Nope.

All these German guys

look like they go to

the same stylist.

Well, so do the girls

for that matter,

without the mustaches.

I don’t really care,

it’s just an observation.

I just want to hear some music,

have a drink and dance.

I know how to dance,

especially to songs like

what’s coming out the door.

Is it because of the war 

in Vietnam I wonder,

there are demonstrations

every week or so.

I’d go to them too if we weren’t

locked up on base those days.

I’m a conscientious objector

for God’s sake. Literally.

I don’t think

that’s the reason, actually.

It’s all the assholes who have

come before me.

Loud and proudly

showing off their

ignorance. Expecting

the girls to be wowed enough

to enthusiastically spread their legs.

That’s not me, I want to say

I just want to enjoy the music,

a drink and a dance or two.

Nicht GIs, he says and

looks away.

Inside the DJ is playing

another T Rex cut:

“Friends say it's fine

Friends say it's good

Everybody says

it's just like Robin Hood

...

Well it's plain to see

You were meant for me

Yeah, I'm your boy

Your 20th century toy.”

Apparently this 20th century

isn’t quite the one for me.

I’ll just go back to base

and read some more

Nietzsche, Mao or Beckett.

 

April drizzle

The last sliver of the moon

gleams through a thin spot

in the clouds. I was hoping

to see the arrangement

of Luna, Saturn and Venus

that would form a celestial

smiley face, an emoji sent

from our solar family.

Doesn’t seem promising for

freeing the Painted Lady butterflies

that have emerged from their

chrysalises in the mesh cage

that came with the mail order kit.

They began as small caterpillars

in plastic cups filled with

some kind of medium and food.

The kit also included a shallow dish

with a cotton pad and a packet

of C&H sugar like the ones

on the table at a restaurant.

Just add water for the butterflies

when they emerge.

And they did. With their lovely

black and rusty orange topside wings

and the undersides dappled

in various shades of grey and beige

like rococo marbled endpapers.

A fitting emblem of resurrection

which was the reason to get the kit.

They flap their wings,

making fluttering taps

that attract the rapt attention

of the calico cat who sits

in the closest chair for hours

in full I’m-a-leopard mode.

The day isn’t suitable

for delicate beings to fly.

The splat of rain drops

harvested from the drizzle

falls from the eaves

onto the leaves of the

camellias that crowd

the garden stairs.

A Tesla SUV

hissing like a cobra

zooms past St Patrick’s

up wet King Street

into Eden Lane.

A carillon rings out

the summons to the five o’clock

Evening Mass as Pope Francis

lies in state. Requiem in Pace,

Francis, please indulge

my Latin. Three years

of classes in high school

and I seldom get to use it.

A carillon for the papillon?

That would be fitting.

I look out the window

hoping to see the sun finally

emerge but there is none.

However, I spot one small egg

abandoned on the railing.

Nut hatch, flycatcher,

bushtit, junco or wren?

For another day or two,

I can feed them more sugar

before releasing them to forage

between the Amarylis buds spearing

towards the sky. To suck from

the riot of jasmine along the street

or to sip the Fresia’s sweet nectar.

Perhaps they prefer Cape Marguerites.

Straight up, no salt.