Big Bang

When the absolute night imploded
from a sheer excess of boredom and sameness,
when the highest pitch could grow no higher
the fattest cow no fatter
the meanest dog no meaner
the saddest song no sadder
and the drunkest lord of all no drunker,
when the dervish projects were finally completed
and the laundry carefully folded for the last time
and the few remaining invisible haloes
winked out in a darkness thicker than coal,
it was a moment for the mystery of lines
of caves and sunlight
wombs and the sentimental bebop rooms
of mothers who might have been angels
faster than the speed of light

who might have invented the first music
who might have seen the original color
who might have shed the tear
that became an ocean,
who might have uttered the first word
and laughed the laugh
that caused the apoplectic happenstances of birth
to become a torrent of touches and dreams,
and the pitiful desperation of logic
to shatter itself with its own echoes and conundra
upon the skulls of the unborn actors
waiting for the unborn audience to appear
somewhere there in the hypnagogic wilderness
where it all supposedly started.