Out of Phase Blues (Polyakov's Blues)

Copyright © 2009 Ernest Bloom (20090512).

I woke up this morning with blues wrapped all around my head. Now
I'm listening to unreleased Dylan from 1962, heeding closely both how
he said it and what he said. The antediluvial soil beneath my feet was
dreamed up by the Ancient of Days billions of years before my species
was scarcely even conceived. Now I've just got the out of phase blues,
my darling, got damn little cause to cry or grieve.

Without expectation I implore you, my friend (though I just might
plunge down on my knees): let's let Nature's beauty arise like fireflies
in the night around us while our workaday obligations we fitly and
summarily forefend and let slip all the way to Hell. Why don't we go
and get lost just this once in the sweet water decay aroma of some
lazy summer river that's slowly plugging along, in life's abundant
detonations of bubbling sulfurous decomposition, methogenous eructs,
eternal propagation of thousands of species seen and unseen all
around us, you and me, under the lap lap lapping lime-colored
tongues of sticky breeze-fluttered cottonwood trees, chased by the
irritated screeches of a pair of big red-tailed hawks intent upon their
own courtship rituals? You and me; that's all; let's split; let's get
going, and let's do it now.

Ancient of Days: did you ever really think about just how old God
really is? Is the generation gap getting you down, my child? Don't
your parents understand what complications your life entails? Do
you think God's been your personal Blue Fairy, ever since He opened
up His stainless steel calipers to measure the dimensions of the
fireball blossoming out of the Big Bang? But maybe He does care if
Charlie asks you to the prom, so you just go right on praying, little
girl, cos I know sometimes miracles really do come true, no matter
what your cynical, disbelieving, sophisticated 17 year-old friends say,
and anyway sometimes destiny is more than just a trope hacked out
of the caliche of ancient Greece.

Time's not like a river, not even a sweetly stinking one, like Huck's
great big fat steaming Mississippi; time is ironed out of a psychedelic
ocean that's cross-tied through and through its twenty-six Polyakov
dimensions. Just because we failed by chance to rendezvous a couple
decades and a few hundred miles ago does nothing to alter the fact
that we two are one gravitationally-locked dyad. Now maybe you
don't know much about wave forms and
No matter. No matter at all. Given the size of expanding space and
the duration of time, it was profoundly unlikely that, in our present
incarnations, by pure chance we'd have found ourselves rejoined at
a convenient point of mutual preference. But that's no matter, for
wave forms, once they share entanglement, have a way of converging
until they're fully in phase. And you and I are on that glide path. Call
it destiny if you will; regardless, I'm not wracked with Polyakov's blues
anymore.