the centrifuges of zion spin
no forces are felt within
though families and men are strapped in
nights and wind and thoughts of freedom
but ceaselessly the centrifuge spins

imagine

the three colors, the seven seas,
three tastes, three directions in space,
is that all?
they say nothing leaves;
and nothing mostly leaves,
all your life you can run
and still never leave the drum
behold the universe, it was made for you
behold men, they talk of it
their fictions wherein they tell of it
and nothing they imagine goes beyond it
why then
why are you not content?

i could make a world
and what would it have
but solids, liquid, and gas
green paths, blue sky
if this is all i am, then why?

some days i contemplate the trees
i see fractals, form, structure,
beauty then is when the rain comes in
and blots out what i see,
the mean patterns of atoms
i no longer can see
i imagine
and i imagine it was all slightly different
i imagine i was free

happiness consists of
new kinds of rain
lovers in communion, shared thoughts
no more shame,
voices without words,
places without space, made from emotions,
summer without sun,
winter with smoky forms moving
by the slow ocean, with cracking ice falling
into the sea.

they say man
always is in pursuit of the new place
the new book, the new song
for the familiar grows wearisome
where is he running to?
why?
always the new, and always the same
sometimes, i wish it would rain

i wanted to discover whole new worlds,
or create them, or live in them;
who does that, and can it be done?
sometimes it seems we live in too small a space
to see outside, but sometimes it seems we already
walked out, and witnessed what we willed;
if i could make what i willed, then i would be overjoyed;
and if i could do this, then i would look no longer
for happiness,
for i would be by the slow ocean,
watching the melting ice falling
into the sea;
i at last would be free.

 - "Imagine," Connelly Barnes, 2007-05-31