Athens, Georgia
March 7, 2012
1. Overture
Quantum strings will always sing assigned frequencies, set pieces undergirding all we are below the threshold of ever knowing with songs that constrain matter to the dance of chance and brute necessity, inert bodies compelled by contingency, brains of beasts bullied by what came before, no foretaste of freedom here where what is not forbidden, that very thing required, enforced in times before the turning, when God’s honey-voiced servant graced the Garden and woke new worlds of choice and shame.
Ah, that siren-serpent
blows jazz notes, riffs
below the threshold of thinking
where blood rises unbidden
and neural circuits
form and bind
strange loops map symbols as Adam sings names
the beasts of field
and birds of air
captured
in the holy dance
of fire and abstraction
by the shade of the forbidden tree that towers mid-garden
stepping lightly
to syncopated serpent-rhythm
looping, loosening, catching
incipient mind finds the symbol for mind
regards itself
staring back, sucked
into consciousness, shatters
the looking glass, falls through the face of infinity
gone the garden, forever
emerging to indeterminacy
with pounding temple and tart aftertaste of awareness
ashamed
at last.
2. Postlude:
Celestial strings
sing peaceful themes
to a strident world
of autonomous souls
locked in the logic
of Sun Tzu and Hobbes
until sweet chords
call forth a latent
angel-nature, carved
below the folds
of growing minds,
molded by God
and game theory
over eons of anguish
to deny the tribal
serpent inside
and bend the steel
arc of history
by slow degrees
toward the peaceable
kingdom which somehow
shines, born
from abstraction
to everyday lives
of kindly sinners
and sweat-stained saints
who swing to strings
and alto sax, freed
from necessity
to fall, or rise.
sing peaceful themes
to a strident world
of autonomous souls
locked in the logic
of Sun Tzu and Hobbes
until sweet chords
call forth a latent
angel-nature, carved
below the folds
of growing minds,
molded by God
and game theory
over eons of anguish
to deny the tribal
serpent inside
and bend the steel
arc of history
by slow degrees
toward the peaceable
kingdom which somehow
shines, born
from abstraction
to everyday lives
of kindly sinners
and sweat-stained saints
who swing to strings
and alto sax, freed
from necessity
to fall, or rise.
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