The bad little brother of the Aurorean

[separator style_type=”double” top_margin=”0″ bottom_margin=”40″ sep_color=”#000000″ icon=”” width=”” class=”” id=””]

[one_half last=”no” class=”” id=””]Stuart Silverman[/one_half]

[one_half last=”yes” class=”” id=””]WINTER 2016[/one_half]

[separator style_type=”double” top_margin=”0″ bottom_margin=”40″ sep_color=”#000000″ icon=”” width=”” class=”” id=””]

Nirvana Anyone?

I feel I am on the brink of eternity. Life dissolves into foam,
like Anderson’s mermaid, a quantum foam, perhaps, but more likely
nothing, a fictive foam floating across the mind, another idea, no
more, sublimely failing to wangle being out of possibility. In the
meantime, the body moves right along, its quantum states vacuous as
a dream from which we emerge uncertainly, having misjudged the
boundaries of is. We should count ourselves fortunate that the body
has no mind of its own to trouble its advance toward dissolution.
It can flounder on convinced that it is and was and will be, unclouded
by the negotiations that synapse-to-synapse set off firestorms in the
conscious being. And this eternity sounds like a good idea, if not
quite what its proponents and explicators seem to think it. I picture
myself at that edgeless bordering where life to airy thinness beat
subsides into a pastiche of clotted memories, a kaleidoscope of
non-being brushed onto a larger or smaller remainder of the lives
I pass on my way to this non-thisness. I will have stepped across
into what cannot be, but may, nevertheless, be spoken. A stasis,
more perfect than Beckford’s, vacuums out every shred and moment.
Something like that. There, no thickets of time, no place, empty or
full, emerges. No verb to express the emptiness. No noun to name
a what, a where, nowhere is there. There, though no there is, thought
that has thought me endlessly has been unthought. Those wisps of
being I leave in the minds of those I left behind vapor into oblivion,
phantoms pushing and shoving as though they might be real. In time,
they will follow me out of time and, shorn of existence, sacrificed to
the null-dimension of eternity, remain, to the end, not-having been.


Bio

An east coast expatriate retired from college/university teaching, [highlight color=”” rounded=”no” class=”” id=””]Stuart Silverman[/highlight]  divides his time between Hot Springs, AR, and Chicago, IL. Some 500 of his poems appear in 100+ journals here and abroad. Hawk Publishing Group publishes his The Complete Lost Poems: A Selection.

[sharing tagline=”Share This” tagline_color=”” title=”the Unrorean | Stuart Silverman” link=”http://encirclepub.com/unrorean/winter-issue/stuart-silverman/” description=”From the Winter 2016 issue of the Unrorean” pinterest_image=”http://encirclepub.com/unrorean/wp-content/uploads/sites/3/2016/02/unrorean.blue_.png” icons_boxed=”” icons_boxed_radius=”3px” box_colors=”” icon_colors=”” tooltip_placement=”” backgroundcolor=”” class=”” id=””][/sharing]