Darwin Blues

I might have avoided the evolutionary jam-up   
if I had jumped an express epoch to a bodiless
future, but my bound for glory, big brains or bust
evolutionary juggernaut got shunted to a neural
side rail waiting out the Zeitgeist’s latest upgrade
to the social hive. I don’t know why I ever thought
it would be doughnuts for dinner stuffing my skull
with a cerebral grow beast that synaptic hauntings
and Mad Max emoji have locked into meta inertia. 
In the trees I had all that an ape man might desire: 
sex with the dominant females, binocular vision
and a permanent ration of fruit. Behind the console
all I’ve got is another earful of AI schadenfreude
looping an algorithm for “Die, monkey boy, die.”


Special Theory


doodling formulas  on forms   
    he discovers  time   
is a persistent  stubborn
    illusion  existing
only relative  to the observer    
    as proof  he creates   
a thought experiment:  a man   
    on a stationary platform   
in Berlin  watches his wife   
    and two children  remove   
themselves from his career    
    though he perceives  
they perceive   that he is
    the one  leaving them   
he occupies  a height   
    his days  have the slow
leisure of talk and thought
   while lives  in camps  
speed  to cremation
    he can tell the world    
how to destroy itself
    or lecture  about
dice and  probability  
    but he  cannot stop  
the past  on its spiral
    trajectory down  a hole  
where a sun  has failed  
    no man  no god  
can call back  that light   


We Have Been Monitoring Your Broadcasts

In a multi-dimensional universe
every phrase resonates
with an infinite
number of interpretations.
Talk radio dreck 
might translate
as transcendent truth
past the next wormhole. 

Old MacDonald Had a Farm 
might be as stirring as La Marseillaise 
for the patriotic biota
of some Planet X.
Car ads might communicate
a sense of ineffable beauty
so overwhelming
that intelligent water swoons.

Unless an alien audience
doesn’t care about meaning,
but prefers any noise
to the hush of space
and listens like humans
gathered beside a crib
who feel pleasure
hearing an unintelligible coo. 



     Chris Bullard lives in Philadelphia, PA. He received his B.A. in English from the University of Pennsylvania and his M.F.A. from Wilkes University. Finishing Line Press published his poetry chapbook, Leviathan, in 2016 and Kattywompus Press published High Pulp, a collection of his flash fiction, in 2017. His work has appeared in publications such as 32 Poems, Green Mountains Review, Rattle, Pleiades, River Styx and Nimrod.