Organic Scramble

(This poem is best viewed on a PC)

We don’t tend to think of earthquakes as pollinators—

the way a bumbling honeybee caressingly blesses

the yellow patch of happiness between bright petals.

Imagine a cupboard of petri dishes, growing their own goo,

self-contained and separated with antiseptic purity.

Ground shakes floors shake walls shake cupboards alive

and the science lab erupts in harmonic cacophony.

So grows the music of the probiotic composting jukebox.

In the breakdown comes rebuilding. There’s fertility

in pregnant pauses between songs where anything is possible.

New sounds screaming with potential or hypnotic wavelengths 

pulsing toward a slow flow revolution. No shuffling

through stagnant progressions, just quasi-organized chaos

warping mesmerizing chords. If static white noise

is maximum random, and a pitch pipe’s lonely droning

is perfect stability, this jukebox cooks for Goldilocks.

New sounds bloom, flexible in the wind and scattered

like wildflowers. Tremors topple stacked rocks: castles

crumble, but good shit keeps painting the hillsides

with a palette that draws from every spectrum.

Whether you crave the nose-scratching pungence

of peppery sulfur, whether your transcendence arrives

from kaleidoscopic dizzymaking, or whether you seek

the sweetness of honey, be sure to tune in again.