Kismet

The week I have my first date scheduled with Dawn Michelle Superman finds himself on sale at the Book emporium next to the sunken garden and dollar movie theatre at Westlake center, stranded on a galactic clod of a disintegrated planet, drifting through the red-eye cosmic nebula

Kismet adorning the universe like a cosmic quilt. Kismet deracinating molecules into vacant conches of matter. Kismet draped like a valence over the bell of time.

She has lips and eyelashes although almost fittingly.

She is the soil of the universe, quadratic equations, the inexpugnable hiss of language, the jarring pulse to communicate. 

She looks like an animated planetarium with boobs.

It is kismet. It  is neither right or wrong, It is orienting our vagaries.. It is the roll of our astrological dice.

 

The nuclear physics of our every eternal decision.

 

It is Kismet.  The echoing ethos of our waking consciousness against the ticking drape of  eternity, it is the free falling lord of nothingness christening our every blink, beckoning our every pulse, it is the stuttering half-breath the hope that things would have been irrevocably different, the dream that what we have been planted here in the area code of the universe matters.

The dream that there will always be a phone booth in which to exert out superhuman persona.

A dream that we will be immortal.

The huff that what we do will be around in the vinyl of forever.

It is Kismet. It is not good or bad. 

It simply is…

It is kismet, giving superman a chance to choose the color of his own fate with a lipstick vial and a lie.

The lie that what we do matters.

It is kismet. It harvests atoms. It is finding yourself at this place and knowing exactly what to do.

It is Kismet. Even in the vast echelons of empty space we are still imprisoned by the metronome of time. We are still slaves to the vagaries, the brisk choices we make with respective to the tattered telos of time, the ideals somehow in grained in our psyche enacted in a rash moment of what we have discerned as truth.

It is kismet and we are always inside, kicking, gnawing at the uterus of consciousness.

It is Kismet and it hurts.

It is Kismet and Superman is assaying his choices.  He is pummeling the justice league. He has married Lois Land and become ruling oligarchs of the Solar System. He has completely disarmed Nuclear tiffs among nations.

It is Kismet and Superman has learned how to kill. He has learned how not to feel. He has learned how to exert his potential so that it governs the elliptical hop scotch of the planet.

It is Kismet.  It is the plurality of infinite possibilities

 

While cosmically tete-a-teteing with Kismet Superman views a kaleidoscopic montage of infinite possibilities, visual fractal’s.

He think about the ramifications of what could happen if he impregnates Lois  and the potential precariousness of her pregnancy, hemorrhaging if the fetus would happen to punt in the second trimester.

 

He sees himself fumbling into o a fascist role of world dictator, easily dismembering fellow limbs of the justice League, oligarch and Lord of the planet.

Becomes Lord Oligarch of the known planet.

Superman witnesses the possibility of every atomic architectural facet drift past him, emblazoned on the brow of his psyche, lost, hurt, not realize that there is a force incubating inside the earth equal to that of his superhuman mettle, not realizing that soon this consciousness he finds himself a part of will dim to nothingness and that he will be no more, squinting inside the sonogram inside his chest to learn one final voice of  everything loss :

 

It is Kismet.

It is forever.

It is neither good or bad.


 It just is.