There's a formula
for everything these days,
and I can prove more
things than I can understand,
And I can fact check
the stars, number the sand,
and I know that there is an Iceland,
even if I've never been.
I battle with the variables
in the language that we wrote
our reason, inherent in the universe:
How is all of this?
Remember when we were kids
and we thought Pluto was a planet and a pup?
Then that moment when
"cuz Mom said so"
wasn't good enough?
When the toothfairy and God and iceberg lettuce
became one giant ball of "I believe"
pressed into the palms of my hands
and squeezed dry into the blackhole
where forgotten "I believes" go?
I look now at a concrete world
because I'm an adult and we believe in such things.
You know the universe is expanding,
space approaching infinity.
What's concrete about that?
This all exists in the flicker of a paradox—
Infinite possibilities, and yet
we still think we can think
in numbers. We've numbered
so much out
with charts of stilted graphs
to calculate the laughs
we've had and should be having
but we're not.
And there's a science to happiness,
chemicals and sabbaticals
top ten do's and don'ts presented
by the radicals who have translated our
statistics into the logistics of behavior,
habits of happiness—
memorizing how to live
And don't get me wrong,
I doubt with you
as I think I can substitute
intellectualism for skepticism.
And I chart and I chart,
and my charts don't fall apart,
but their lines turn to art,
And I number my graphs,
but, we wrote the rules to math,
and aren't we all just starving artists
scraping the world for purpose
finding only empty numbers telling us how
but never why.
Why is all of this?
The second question
not inherent in the universe,
but breathed into its nostrils.