Her room is a box, obscured from view,
and the fallout from emotive radiation
dies in half life. Sexual reality is non-local
unless you open up your eyes, so you sit
there in the black, cloaked in macroscopic
indeterminacy and sense the superposition
of her body curled away beneath the sheets.
Both of you exist on infinite worlds, just as long
as you remain that way —you both never see
her again as well as stay with her forever while
simultaneously continuing to rendezvous like
this for several months of vague, non-committal
emotional confusion, misconstrued between
your friends. Perhaps you’ve gone home with
another girl than the one who left the party —
hell, perhaps another guy — while at once
you went home alone, and never left the house
at all. Or maybe she’s The One (although
as long as we’re discussing physical science
and probability, that one seems particularly
unlikely however still completely possibly). But
the witness draws an outcome, and as soon
as one observes this quantum entanglement
of two distinct bodies on wavering strings,
the action exerts a force between them, a force
so powerful it destroys every world but One.
Because sometimes, when you’re trapped in the
vastness of space, it’s better to stay in the dark.
Posted in poetry
Tagged atoms, bell's theorem, casual sex, einstein, Einstein–Podolsky–Rosen paradox, force, half-life, hook-ups, jonathan bell, love, monday, Physics, quantum entanglement, quantum mechanics, quantum physics, radiation, relationships, Schrödinger's cat, Science, sex, space, string theory, theoretical physics, thought experiment, women
He and She are two lines, converging
to a point like sharks in steady motion:
always moving forward, never going back,
and never standing still until its end.
He and She are straight lines with nothing
but a steamy ninety-eight-point-six degrees
between them, keeping them apart,
separated by an ark until they reach the Point.
She is a solid line, at least 5B lead,
running parallel along the grid
without wavering, without a bend,
and inked to give her shadows,
character, emphasis and depth, while
the other lines perpendicule around her.
He is a dotted line, bisectual,
cutting squares in half, pointing straight
a-head like an arrow, dangerous and
pea-cocked by its fletchings.
A compound beau with pulleys
and gears that often miss the mark.
He and She are headed for a Vanishing Point,
To a collision, or towards a horizon line
where every building skews in a new direction
down slanted streets, slouching towards,
To end, or to continue on and on, anon.
He and She are headed towards a head,
forged by perspective. A trick of the eyes
and the I’s and lines, the lives and the lies,
manipulating space- and wasting -time
creating new dimensions to live in-
side by side, not content with length-by-height.
He and She are two lines, converging to a Point:
An ending, a forever, or flip-sides of a coin?
Posted in nonfiction, opinion, poetry
Tagged 2D, 3D, apex, converge, converging, depth, dimensions, dotted lines, geometry, grid, grids, height, horizon, horizon line, length, lines, love, math, monday, parallel, perpendicular, perspective, point, points, romance, signs, space, space-time, time, vanishing point, verizon, width