They call this poetry

They call this poetry, but 
You know better. This is sorcery!

The making art. The instruments for basic experiments: 
Vials 
Not made of glass, 
But of the thinnest film of words self-attaching 
The beginning to the end, 

Within which loops of time are measured with exactitude,
Two equal parts to each side; a time traveller's 
Arrowhead—

One shot—a green flame; an utterance bellowing
Thunderbursts through the throat, and off

You go. 
You wanted rain; it rains. You wanted the hard 
And the cold; 

By now you've drawn in lungsful of air. Enough. 

The space ants 
Hover over cold metal. You read between the lines
Like an inspector 
For a miniature palm-top factory.

The rhymes produce, tempt: make easy, 
Make do—
The music comes again, 
Sprouting midnight tunes from the centre of your hand—this 

Is the craft, the ever-restless band of
Monotonist strides, and it grows
So long, so well.
It grows big. 

Big enough to stopper the universe
And remain invisible 
In the starless sky.

Dale Chou
2013-12-23