Separation between Past, Present and Future is Only an Illusion

Said Einstein
and here on a tug-boat
I am a barnacle, what would I know
head-cemented after weeks drifting
through weedy swamp-waters
nymph-wafted once
my altered hydra-forms
passing jelly fish tippling their barbs upward
in a prayer-like reflective pose
the pheromones of my brood
fixed me to this underside

Crustaceans and I observed
great-thinkers on sea-crafts
studying captured ones
in super-nets along these waters
their blustered stern ropes
flying-wild whipped up predator clouds
they treasured skillfully crafted marine-knots
like a Victorian plaited hair-piece
ropes perfectly coiled on the boat’s bow
If I look back over my Paleozoic shoulder
into the figure-eight of the water’s wake
waves shifting inward, to always move out
one day I could be in a curious hand
inside a prospector’s pocket
I can at best only have a trusted-eye
for light and dark
perhaps not enough time
to think about what is to come
admittedly, I sidle to high-energy moments
to be ground-down by wave-motion  

And what of filter feeding
a self-regarding whelk said
to avoid bright-star phosphates
might shrivel a spooling-appendage
Patricia Piccinni’s human-seal to stir up sand
if it flippers by

And those anti-fouling agents
the landlords of this hull-bed hatchery
true, I call their barrier-methods
biocide of the larva-soulÂ
(Switch to a barnacle exhibit in a museum
sometime around the next century
no, make that yesterday)
the entirety of form
the nature of damage Â
you’ll see my ancestors, my progeny
to trace the truth through this shell
its interior long gone
only dreams of a naupilus
swimming towards the light

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