Cupid glistens in the middle of the sun.
You’re blinded by such beauty.
While tumbling downwind, as you pass
the checkout, you can remit hard cash
and take Cupid away, anywhere you want.
You haven’t been giving black holes
any thought lately, busy making round trips
to hell and back. But I think it’s ok for you
to go home now, you could use some sleep.
You won’t face the least resistance because
all of your firewalls have been dismantled.

A constant stream of intoxication coats
your captive dreams like lava flow.
You can be gregarious because nobody cares,
and free to coddle established traditions.
The black hole less than event is more a stage
recycling time from its magic cosmic calculus.

In essence cyclone and tornado
are mathematical conglomerations
of chthonic spheroids that gather strength
on an immense scale, climb the ladder
of pure desire and meet in rings of amplitude.
Picture yourself at the center of the equator
of a black hole. Never can you both be exposed
simultaneously. Reminisce about how the sun
rose and set billions of times.

The Doppler effect given up for dead,
who hid the Mars bars behind canned beans
is obviously irrelevant.
You see that Nature’s magnets are cones,
and the planets actually double magnets.
Intense parsing yields you expanded poles.

Matter forming matter at the apex of two cones
balances with space, winds and unwinds again
forevermore, nothing gained, nothing lost.
— Thomas Piekarski
Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly and Pushcart Prize nominee. His poetry and interviews have appeared in literary journals internationally, including Nimrod, Florida English Journal, Cream City Review, Mandala Journal, Poetry Salzburg, Poetry Quarterly, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, and Boston Poetry Magazine. He has published a travel book, Best Choices In Northern California, and Time Lines, a book of poems.

Image Notes: Black hole eating a star—the rare event caught. See (