It’s all Einstein’s Fault (revised)

Great work, Sublimated Poetic, Venting is good for the bones, matter and energy only seperated by degree. M

that fucking Einstein... energy and matter... we are like the molecules racing through... very much liked this work of yours... one of my favorite sayings was told to my wife by her boss at the time... there is matter... and then there's doesn't matter.. don't know why I included it here... I just love the saying and wanted to share it... Richard

Einstein only discovered the theory...don't be so quick to knock a fluffy headed brother! ne way...great write Jess...I love the venters! <3 Emarie @~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~@ "For every shadow, no matter it's depth, is threatened by the morning's light..."

Cool poem, Jess! We poets often ponder the meaning of existance and why in Hell we write! Old Albert may have trapped us in his theory, but we have the power to mold the univese in our own way! Loved this one!

A first class rant, a bit on the sad side - perfect ! The poem may be Einstein's fault but never your feelings 8) Mark Man thinks this.

This matter in the 'matter, energy and Einstein theory', how does it make the poet to run away from home? The speed makes people to look the same, so, slow down, take a holiday, come to Africa, come to Nigeria, come to me your friend. I like this poem. it is well written. Best wishes. T.

Einstein didn't investigate the creation or matter theory or otherwise known as the 12 ounce beer theory. Drink 12 ounces of beer and create 24 ounces of urine. Nice write Jess. Respectfully, Rett: "Life is like a beach. Salty, gritty, somewhat fishy and at other times, downright crabby" Rett: 2008

Nice write, i see inner peace as home in this write. reminds me of rett poem *journey* from a different perspective. the image you share is good as well as the flow of rhythm moves ever softly. Respectfully Yours, Barbara

Einstein, He was saying that the energy in a train ticket could take that train around the world, Hu! he didn't have to pay for the damn ticket and it wouldn't run on time, if at all LOL. Great write, the sadness as with man, we have one of the most beautiful planets in this area and we cannot even look after all our children, all we want to do is fight. I remember stories of the last War where the soldiers fought for a few years in the Sahara desert, The sand is still there and part of that sand are those that fell. Hardly anyone lives there in its own barren way it is still beautiful. If they stay there long enough it will be as home. Keep writing Jess you have such a lot of beauty in your great country, can we hear of it, where you feel the Land and it is home, Yours Ian.T

uplifted, actually---by a short TV coverage this morning of little waddlies, those southern penguins of Australia, as they trotted out of the sea onto beach near midnight ... and thence to their burrows to spend most of the dark time ... thence to race (as much as they're able to race) predaylight back to water to spend the light of day fishing. In some ways I envy them. Even though I'm a lousy swimmer. Even for a human. I'm thankful Australia's seen fit to protect those incredible birds, and other species, as much as she is able. Or at least ostensibly so. Yes, if it weren't for Einstein, we wouldn't know as much as we do. Or at least as early as we did. I think. But then I shouldn't. To think's dangerous. Unseemly. Part of the sleaze that identifies us as human. Or so we like to think. Your logic's grandly impeccable. I wouldn't have you any other way. Thanx again, Chuck

The poem testifies to your genious. I respectfully read it.

this piece reads so smoothly, like honey in camomile tea (which I love, because, being from Germany, I often have a cold-inflicted sore throat) :-) outstanding title followed by outstanding thoughts. thank you for making my day, Jess! your Proprietress

but there's a loneliness...better, a solitariness...even better, a separateness speaking through this poem... no, something else... emptiness... exile... Lucifer imprisoned, key on the ground at his feet, in the dirt, the humous, without the humility to bow his head... And I like to imagine that every pathology is an urge of the psyche to heal. I imagine I hear that this exile is a longing for a communion, a union with the unnamable transcendent emptiness...the void? I feel this poem as a poem of longing. Lucifer and Odysseus are brothers, longing for home. Fucking Einstein. Forcing us to give up the outer journey for the inner journey. I am so grateful that this poem is so well written that I can enjoy its matter and interiority. I can deeply feel the frustration at the loss of the dream of crossing out of boundaries at light speed into what is unknown. It's worth grieving...the loss of the possibility of that unburdened freedom. Where is the energy to press through that unpressable barrier? The Source? This is a poem very worth riffing on. Thank you. Michael

this poem rocks, i have often pondered similiar thoughts myself, really felt a connection with this poem.