The Speed Limit of the Universe

photoart: ralph murre

The Speed Limit of the Universe

 by David Clowers

The speed limit of the universe

is supposed to be the speed of light—

and I guess it is if you want to know

how fast a photon can travel—

but what about information

in the universe?

How fast does that go?

Let me tell you a story:

My love was in London.

I called to say I was on my way,

and wished I was already there,

not half a continent, plus an Ocean, away.

You are here,  she began,

as I felt something slide

over my shirt,

on top of my heart—

I even looked down to see—

then she said,

and I’m in your pocket, Luv!

~ previously published in

Shedding My Three Piece Birthday Suit (Birchwinds Press)

Free Fall

digital art: ralph murre

Free Fall

by David Clowers

When the branch broke

under me—recalling Icarus—

I willed myself to fly

but dropped anyway

through tangle of tree limbs

strong winds knocked down

and found

I‘m only

the latest one

to fall.

~ first published in the Peninsula Pulse

Delicious

artwork: ralph murre

Delicious
by David Clowers

Since god expelled his first
two students for learning,
should we assume ignorance is
the only way to understand creation?
I’d still want to know
what the rain wants when it falls,
or what that dead fox—
lying by the side of the road—
wanted from the other side.

And those gulls—
flying like white missiles
across this morning’s sky—
what are they aiming for?
What is the meaning of clover
that smells like an Iowa field
almost forty years ago?
How did passion cool
to the ice that flowed
like a glacier across
the face of my wife?

And so, Eve, tell me—
how does this apple taste to you?

~ first published in the Peninsula Pulse

CRITIQUE OF PURE REASON

artwork: ralph murre

Critique of Pure Reason
by David Clowers

"An intellectual is a person who has discovered
something more interesting than sex." Aldous Huxley

While my hands are fidgeting on your back, I think
about Jung saying that if you showed him a sane man
he would cure him for you—which
makes me wonder if anyone who is sane
can ever love, because love means losing yourself
in your lover. “Le petit mort,” the French have called it,
but then the French always have love
on the table with some red wine and a crisp baguette,
and Brecht could have been talking about love,
as well, I guess, when he said,
“First feed the face, and then talk right and wrong.”

But I think I’ve lost my place, my love.
Please take me around that curve on your body
that makes me stop thinking about everything
and puts me in touch with my hands.

~ first published in Peninsula Pulse