Turbacyon

Adrift, rifting.

This thing of turbulence, aloft on and (then) sinking. Into, handmade my fingers (in) bereft (and then).

When we realise/d that – on the momentous day when – at that moment – o

that it really was flight, this lifting
belly of self
self touching. To the point of. It. Is. Interstellar
transport, here and (then) here
again.

Self-generate delta-v (propellant, thrust) & slip earth
gravity beyond the Kármán line.

Inner /
outer,
it's

believing that’s hard. This ripple
~ spacetime ~
soft as. That we have been
travelling
all
this
time lighting lights seeding nebulae
from our unknowing.

Turbacyon

How to navigate, though, given waves and waves of. Put away your sex
tants, your astrolabes. You cannot map it only
((let it))

lap

compare Greek kolpos: a fold, a harbour, a wing sheath, a bosom (sc. of comfort); a
tongue (at). Ooh doesn't it take something to be so
taken, licked kittenish & picked up by the scruff, (un)shaken. Yes, ma'am,
the universe is a mother cat & we. But then we've always known that.

This universe
a river & wet
yr [X] only
once in a
given, so slip or
step otherwise
for all is flux
& never over

whelmed, or the river
covers you, the flow
goes over head &
footing gone, uncertain so
how
how do you
hold (you)
hold (breath) &
remember: you
float

Turbacyon

so
breathe

in all this space, space for thinking: what if
life is (a held breath) underwater & we are
gasping for that (other) air. It's there. It's
here and (then) (still) here. Wait. Taste it. What if
I sprawl across & under these riverine sheets
like that that extra terrestrial blue woo ooooooo &
refuse. Hereherehere say, astrodynamic: stay
interstellar, believe.
In, in
finiting.