After nineteen hundred years of consultation,
he who once revealed himself through his kid
went away, left us to truth and its evasions,
gave us initial coordinates on a grid
to put our little nothings all in place,
letting us plot out by ourselves the remainder.
For what exists takes up a nearly boundless space
and what does not requires a container.
What we then made would have better been left unmade,
and unwritten, all the theories centered around
what we screwed up in the early decades.
For later we discovered existence comes down
to nothing more than remembering all the tunes –
apathy, quiescence our greatest boons.
Between the two: the joker, the baron, the clown.
[Previous: Aloof in the Flesh]
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