the plan keeps coming up again in poetry

the secret algorithms
behind the surface levels
we’ve mistaken as free will
the subtle patterns weaved
into the dance of an electron shell
the scatter patterns of refracted light
the decisions bursting out from neuron fire
that somehow accumulate into this
consciousness such as it is
held together with no more
than baling wire and spit
smaller than we can see
larger than we imagine

they may not be God but
they may as well be God
as much as we could ever
know Her or Him or it
or her or him or it
they are as much as
we could ever know

if not God then at least
the trails something like it
left behind in the damp sand
residue left maybe on accident
for us to augur like bird guts
for Schrodinger or Heisenberg
for Feynman or for Einstein
to divine

that’s it
we’re strings of odds
woven by maybe-gods
coalescing somehow into
matter and from there into
something that can think
that it is thinking
about thinking
thoughts

eureka dropping
apples in the bath
we are the ghosts
of haunted math

Last updated October 18, 2021