What if the powers-that-be. Were everywhere there. In everything's inner glow. Like Apollo in what's seen. Eye, camera, image editor. Dionysus in what's heard. Ear, drum, audio editor. Christ in what's said. Voice, key tap, text editor. Inhabiting every meridian, chakra, astrological sign. Because the powers are of this world. Making passive representations passé. Leaving only active objectified versions. Of this reality to ponder, shape, extend. If so, a mp4 ,mp3, jpg, txt file. Wouldn't be copies of the real. May be the real itself. In universalized particularized smashed instances. Tools for powers magic carpet flight. Deities incarnated. Dionysus the heard in song. Apollo the seen in painting. Christ's the word in spoken poem. Filters tools layers baking in leaven magic dough. Hot oven ready objective self versions. Of savory created them.
Flung afar as tiny tide-pool of distant stars. In far off arm chair galaxies. Zen master shouted, "Give me a 360 poem." Like a microcosmic orbiting bicycle breath. Turning in on itself. With each daily repetition. Like a cat's hungry meow. Who loves raw chicken. Always pounce heady ready. With best couch sharped claws. Was today the day. It was supposed to happen. Because the sun did set every session. Not exactly ever.