Image created by AI based on poem

van Gogh paints starry swirls on the interior of the hadron collider,
excitation modes divining the luminous day of a cosmic psyche,
ebullience of the creative moment as comets seed the earth

and physicists mistake his brushstrokes for data—
they chart the yellow whorls, plot cypress trees
against probability distributions, find God particles

hiding in the impasto – somewhere between
the canvas and the collision, matter forgets
it was supposed to be predictable

kaleidoscopic supersymmetry unveils strange loops,
circumscribed by the calm intelligibility of science
model agnosticism engulfs with purifying fire

in the ascetic refuge of an enchanted forest, imaginarium of enlightenment,
crystalline structures of specificity hide the occlusions of the unconscious,
chaotic clouds of information growing exponentially

until the monks in their laboratories can’t tell
which came first: the equation or the vision,
the fern’s fractal spiral or Mandelbrot’s ghost

they light incense that smells like uncertainty,
pray to theorems that pray back in quantum tongues,
and van Gogh—still painting in the collider—

laughs because he knew all along:
stars swirl the same way neurons fire,
and every collision is also a creation

Usha’s bifurcated tongue spreads duality across the canvas of the mind
sand shifting at the garden’s gate, encoding cryptic messages,
erosive ablutions upon the glittering souls of the dead

across the deep shaded valley starling calls and falcon cries unite
imploding singularity awash in Dionysian pleasure amidst an Apollonian
atmosphere, contrasting Wittgenstein’s necessary silence

Huysum’s flowers scry an ecstatic love, impulses flashing
like jewel inlaid symbols of eternity, cartography of virtuosic ambiguity,
as Richter explicates tragic materiality or sublime interiority

within this vale of soul-making, temporal and inescapable,
poetry’s fountain, a thousand headed hydra, reanimates and reclaims
Renoir’s river runs as the round world spins, days end and the end begins

in this elusive and fragile bubble replete with elaborate honeybee dances
Magritte’s surreal apple exists in its listening room
immortally intoxicated with the mystic universe

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