Fiction Friction

It's an old story.
Two sticks, fire.
Lightning, loss.

Genesis is key
to the our doors;
which side is out
and where is in;
dependent variables
under the cold once timed.

Upon space goes plot--
Protagoras spinning swill
to sell to the children of the rich.

Publication spells privy,
that privileged ceramic bowl
where dreams come out
from the other end.

Simplicity is dead.
Long life is not complexity.
Ambiguity is weak:
what we needed was a great lie
and now all we have is deep blue truth.

Memory is a farce
told in rising action
and falling characteristic dilemma;
none of us can stand for all of us
and neither can a blob;
the end of the road is the beginning of the wilderness
particularly when the trees are down
and pavement covers the map.

Virtuosity's race was a civilization
and now it's a virtual orbit
well above the grounded equilibria
whose fairness should have been our warning
that stability was a ruse
and a cackling, waiting storm.

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