Gradients of radiating lines of influence. Collisions
and collusions of profusions of geometries.
A frieze of such mathematical equations as can tease
themselves into believing they can feel and float
on breezes, and be put to music, made to dance,
enjoined to conjure up conditions of romance,
thereby financing the imagination with a currency
sufficient to convince it of its chance to change
its substance of abstraction into matter, into
reproducing flesh, into something with autonomy
equivalent to what we sort out of a mesh of prostituted
possibilities – theories we pay like whores to make us
think we’re more than odd and random bubbles in
a mind – to blink and pop, perceive that what we find
is what we’ve yearned so badly to believe there is: a God.
Is nothing not a question? Is everything an answer?
Do we have feet that blister on the stony path?
Is there a path? Or are we motley postulates of math?