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Poetry

Spontaneous creation is the reason there is something rather than nothing, why the universe exists, why we exist. It is not necessary to invoke God to light the blue touch paper and set the universe going.
——————-—Stephen Hawking

And so it has been
accomplished, the way
worms wriggle miraculously
from a leftover cheese,
rats from rag piles in the waste
of some medieval barn,
the peasants marveling
at matter transforming
itself out of itself into another
while in candlelit labs the stained
fingers of the alchemist
hover over every verity
hypothesizing gold from the least
emulsion, so the universe
arises of its own accord
godless in the mind’s pretense
of a God, the unnecessary
premise, husk of spirit the flesh
sloughs to become
its own ever-enterprising meat
undiluted, un-deluded
finally now in its advance
from quantum blink
to a quirk that thinks—
masturbatory,
this endlessly expressive
prescience of nil, this quill
that feathers its un-feathering nest
with consciousness
that always shits where it eats,
eats what it shits, that is
the shit that eats the shit that eats
what it is with its needless
need for why it is, while the seed
of every toggle-switching
second sprouts infinitely
iterative into the reaches,
each the causeless cause of each,
the nothing that nothing gives.
Or we are the bodies of the God that lives.


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