Lori Lamothe

The Physicist at the Clinic

The universe is out of tune. Just try and play it. Can't you hear the equations clashing like broken chords? Note how Einstein floats up from the coffee table, how his hair is woven with prophecies. Now take a look around the room: see that woman in the lime green coat, the watery folds of her umbrella, the way her ring seems to be perpetually slipping off her finger? Everything's brimming with chaos, particles rapping chance, and not one of them can carry a tune. You could walk through that door and be benign.You could walk through that door and be. You could walk through that door and. Maybe all I've got is a bad case of theory: ghosts wracking my mind in eleven dimensions. I use Einstein's wastebasket for a washboard, riffs overflow out of my pockets, but every time I think I've found God's draft of the Ninth Symphony a string of numbers unravels the universe. If I turn back from tomorrow, will I still see you hurrying toward me across a galaxy of asphalt, eternity's bright scarf thrown over your dark hair?

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Psychic Meatloaf Poetry Journal