.
If Creation has
a problem it is not that some
jejune or inattentive
aspect of the Maker put
the purple
where the blue should be, or that
too many flies
or too few bees were requisitioned
for immediate
delivery to swamps or farms
or linden
trees, or that a vitriolic reflex has
become the
norm in homo sapiens communities.
Creation does
the work we call creation for no
other reason than
it has no other thing to do.
.
From its
points of view, it comes out perfectly.
That it may
not suit our purpose is not only not
a problem but not
so much as a gluon of concern
to that mysterious
proclivity that pumps out
theater props
and futons and banana splits
and digital antiphonally
remixed covers for
the songs you
never liked. Not one bit of creation
isn’t spiked
to make somebody doped or sober,
or to waver
over and above the greater part of All
.
so that the
greater part of All and it will likely
never meet – until
by chance an unsuspected
several drops of
it break through your mother’s
skin into her reproductive
system like invading
mitochondria to
reassort the synthesizing DNA
that had already
started to construe the interesting
unfathomable
thing that one day would be you.
What problem
to Creation could you be?
Uh-oh. Irrefutably,
perhaps, one day we’ll see.
.
.
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