My poem Boltzmann’s Brain at Tyson Bley’s Dark Blog

Boltzmann’s Brain by Donna Snyder


Boltzmann’s Brain – Donna J Snyder

thought invents other then self
surpasses time’s illusion self’s illusion
time’s arrow only a construct
a concession to psychology
our emotional attachment to the notion of senses
objective reality a comforting myth but only goes so far
thought sleeps
dreams of universe multiverse nothingness
dreams of somethingness but has its doubts
thought dreams constellations
their starry gravity impels our momentum
and even as they die they compel us to resist change
but only if we are matter
only if matter really matters and is in motion
only if motion raises the temperature of the bodies in question
only if the density and viscosity are low and the matter diffused
but really who believes in ideal anything much less matter
you know and I know there is nothing constant or ideal
the pocket full of posies unreal as the heat death of the universe
no being independent of mind or object
relationships construed where none exists
here or there becomes where you are
thought evokes kinetic energy as if our bodies were in motion
a line between points nothing more than kinetic theory
our particles no where moving in straight lines
no velocity no direction
gravity isn’t even invited to the party
thought creates me but neither it nor I exist
nothing left but heuristics
entropy the only constant and that may not be true either


sui generis here



church of intermission. church of the rolled-away church my fever follows. church of it ain’t a baby until it spits. church of the lawnmower left running. of the space you give the grieving horse. church of you when you die in my sleep. of musical suicides. church of the disinfected high chair. of the false bruise. of how to become a balloon in the church of touch.


in the library’s dream, the abortion clinic is no bigger than a fingerprint.


this is me
for a photo
of my father’s
last meal.


to have
the allergic
my mother

for proof
of animal

a mirror for my toys. dirt for my brother.


and we touch to abridge doom in the bed of a headless man. and we struggle to hear a father verbatim. and we ask in a fierce wind a phone…

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