The Little Ones

1,024 Lilliputians
bungee jump off my eyelids
like little green-haired lemmings;
leaping to their death
as the rock-face, which they thought
of as assuredly secure,
comes crashing down
and I sleep.

The red mass shreds
graphite memories into
tiny micro-threads of thought,
waiting to be blown
or swiped away.

A soulless number once proved
that given forever,
our ancestors could randomly
achieve our greatest works of art.

The hulking beast that drives
us all to similar ends
lies in a delicate shape:
an expression of the unlimited,
a tipped-over eight.

I dream of Lilliputians
lashing me down.
Each grabbing a fine
strand of my hair,
they tug with the effort
that built the pyramids.
I scrape along the ground
with every "heave-ho!"

Progress is slow,
but any Quantum Man
would gladly tell you
that while some fear
spiders and goblins and ghosts
and lions and tigers and bears,
a Learned Man's fear
springs from an
infinite number of
infinitely small things.