Save Silica Packets to Keep Tools Dry and Rust-Free [Clever Uses]

Save Silica Packets to Keep Tools Dry and Rust-Free [Clever Uses]: "

You'll find them in everything from food containers to electronics packaging, but silica packets are a cheap and abundant desiccant you can use all around your home to keep things dry. Toss a few in your toolbox for rust-free tools. More »

"

Oh entropy- the years are tearing me down

Oh entropy- the years are tearing me down.
Days go, drowning in the riptide,
slipping back into the dreamless nothing,
stripping me slowly to the bone.
Then, even my bones must become
the dust swept from this doorstep.
I shall be ground fine by the millstone of stars turning,
pilgrims burning their own hajj across infinity,
Trails of stardust swirling into flickering moments,
lighting the tiny fires of time where they touch down.

2/16/10

how many mathematicians does it take to change a lightbulb?

the Infinite Loop is a helix,
as it turns out:
two edges, one surface, a twist.
-one surface.
Möbius, you wide-eyed engineer,
obviously here to take a few measurements-
how you escaped gravity without crucifiction,
is the mystery.
Seven vertices point to an eighth?-
(slick logic coin trick)
Still- in my own hands, in this world,
an ordinary paper strip
transmits a symbol to the soul:
you hold Infinity in your hand.


7/17/09

Logos

By the word,
It is all made beautiful,
war and solitude.
A ruby necklace
fans across the white neck
of the virgin -her eyes resolutely nailed to heaven,
silently she sinks to the stones,
innocent and sky-blind -for what reason, we forget.
The fool before Venus, begs for mercy
whirling in a coloured coat,
sold to the streets, like Joseph, by his brothers.
They think he is pretending, laughing and pointing,
his charade of love for the marble virgin
-ridiculous, affected. Unbearable, -insulting.
Ladies look away.
His mission is accomplished.
His love is deep and true and real
and God has given him this magic as a reward
for his sacrifice - rescinding everything
for love.
Kept nothing for himself
no pride, no wife, no wealth, no price.
He loves without hope.
Baptised in a breathless pause,
a tiny gap between light and mind,
a trick to divert their eyes,
so he can be alone with her one second
just as she begins that soft and radiant descent
into her own blood.
He leans in, and whispers, one word.
Love.
I am the word -or so it is said -
though I refute the translation.
A sad and sour man, spitting bile
into the lovely streets of Paris,
so often slippery with the blood of brothers,
-yet beautiful-
Afflicted by fortune, eyeing the half dead horse,
rescued from agony by the hunger and the siege.
And still, all beautiful -made beautiful
by the word.
The sound and the shape
strike their own silver timbre
along the channel of our deep and narrow senses,
but it is the meaning, travelling between us
describing the distance
- this bridge, like forceps, births the river.
The word is the cupped hand from which we drink the meaning.
Moments, like raindrops, gather
in furrows and gunnels. washing everything clean.
Time and grace, translucent, shimmering
flow like reflections in windows
as you ride in the taxi
over the bones of your brothers.
All made beautiful.