Tuesday, December 11, 2018

Like Waiting in a Bathroom for the F Train

If the universe were fully tiled like a bathroom
would it not beget a frantic Zeitgeist in a math boom
where meticulous intelligences working in new styles
of assessment count up ever vaster quantities of tiles,
making counting lose its use? In a sea of computation
that approached the infinite, no schema of relation
was imaginable, no organizing system was available
for counting or to count on. It would be unassailable
that nobody could ever accurately calculate the sum
of shiny squares that would already have begun to bum
us out; their careful quadrilinearity would be a joke
which rudely rubbed a smugness in, thereby to choke
us out of any foolish notion ‘finite’ had a meaning.
This would leave us woozy, unsupported, leaning 
on exactly nothing that would bear our weight.
For what would we have been too early or too late?
Perhaps some future evolutionary mutant miracle
will formulate a being who will grasp the spherical 
more than we can. We hang from brutal jagged edges -
perilously mortally suspended from repellent ledges
slicing into skin, inevitably therefore to insure we fall
without once ever understanding what created All.
Unable finally to grasp the fullest calculus of ‘Round’
or to apply it to eternal tiles destined never to be found
to which we therefore cannot lend the barest sense
so that we’d die in a condition as impenetrably dense
as we began, what woman or what man can render
Existential Clarity to Endlessness? Maybe a transgender
Prophet will arrive to wed the circle to the square -
create for us an “Actual” that won’t have bred despair.
This re-tiled 23rd Street subway station makes one think.
Like waiting in a bathroom for the F Train. Hearts will sink.

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