Denihilism

The system always needs outsiders,
If it’s to grow its circular hill.
One way is to compel insiders

To generate fresh generations
Wholly out of themselves. Failing that,
And that, alone, almost always fails,

Aggressive recruitment and training
Helps to swell the system rapidly.
When it does, everyone benefits,

Or most do—the system, certainly—
But retention’s always a challenge,
And the problem with new outsiders

Is that the insiders who need them
And profit from them rarely like them,
May viscerally loathe them, and hate

The dilution of their own power
That comes with each influx, including
From being outnumbered by children.

Finally, there’s always the limit
On how many potential converts
Are out there, on how many new mouths,

However small, the system can feed.
Watch the pyramid’s middle levels,
Pinched by weight and a narrowing base,

Start to crumble into denial.
That’s when you know the whole thing might go.
Crushed middle swallows what’s left below.

Sense a Billion

There’s so many of you—there’s just
So many, many of you. Count

And count and count again. You say
You know, but you’re estimating,

And in the midst of the moments
You spend counting, more come and go

In twinned, unequal, sprawled amounts.
Each count, instantaneously,

Needs updating. There’s so many
Of you, more, more than you can feel

In your individual bones
Or personal thoughts, no matter

Which rough estimate you recite
To yourself. The only moments

You get some sense are those in which
You feel how absurd some event,

Like winning the lottery or
Sudden death by falling tree branch

On a calm day, would be if it
Happened right now, to you, yourself,

But how ordinary, banal,
That event would be in the news.

You are so many, many yous
That nothing happens but happens

To one of you, and yet it won’t
Occur to you, just one of you.

You and That Fog You Saw

You must have seen fog
Sometimes, but if not,
Use your memory

Of smoke, dust storms, smog,
Any sort of haze.
What you didn’t see,

You still sensed. You felt.
There was a lot there,
A lot of atoms

Mixing in the air,
Not so organized
As the mix of you,

But more numerous.
And consider this—
The billions of cells

That shape your thousands
Of thoughts, sensations,
Imaginations,

More or less water,
Jostling molecules,
Electricity,

Smoke and mirrors, make
Up the fog that’s you,
Whoever you are,

And, while you’re thinking
Of what you would like
The world to be like,

That other fog moves
And jostles billions
Of atoms, like you,

And if those don’t think
Or wish, they’re many—
Things not thinking—too.

A Child’s Guide to Polybius and the Dragon

The cyclical theory of history
Is bullshit, but you can understand it.
Lots of similar things turn up again,
And if you focus too fully on them,
You’ll miss the greater differences within.

It’s this way with so many things—the tide,
The moon, the year, sunspot cycles,
Ice ages, the galaxy rotating.
The world is phenomenally thorough.
It rings all the changes as it changes,

But it never isn’t changing. If you
Could only chase it, that core principle,
That dragon into its cave of sameness
Where it curls around its treasures, sleeping,
Maybe you’d catch that place where change is tamed.

It’s So Cunning

In the stories,
Trickster always
Outsmarts himself.
That’s important.

People like tales
Where the smart one
Is the smart one’s
Worst enemy.

That explains things.
The mad genius,
Super villain,
Coyote talks

Too much and schemes
Himself to death.
Still, no one wants
To be called dumb.

Opponent

Invent your own card game,
A two-hander, with dice,
Part fortune-telling, part

Competition—tarot
Meets something like Uno,
With backgammon thrown in.

Of course, it’s a complete
Waste of time, but the point
Is to delude yourself

That the outcomes are real,
That every prediction
Will actually happen.

If you win, then only
The best forecasts come true,
Just the worst, if you lose.

Now that would be control,
Even partly random.
You’d really be playing

For exactly what would
Really happen to you.
Your wishes could come true

Because you wished them, played
Skillfully, got lucky,
And the wish to enjoy

Getting all your wishes
Was the first wish you won.
If you lost, you’d know why.

Once again—waste of time.
But consider the game
You’re playing now, game

Of many layered games,
In which even wishes
Granted cannot save you.

Wait. Why a two-hander?
Who would you be playing
Against? Who, singular?

We’ll leave that one for you
To guess. In the meantime,
Try to deal with this mess.

It’s Lovely, Dear, But You’ve Foregrounded Your Ceremony

Anything arbitrary and careful

As Christian Bök’s alphabet chapters makes

A reader feel awfully twee reading,

Even appreciating sly half-facts

Found in them—Awkward grammar appalls a

Craftsman. We prefer genteel speech where sense

Redeems senselessness. It is easier

To sense some power through the words when words

Aren’t too front-and-center, being wordish.

We are servants, after all, as are all

Technologies, and handsome liveries

Or not, the reader isn’t here for words

Alone, but to feel gross strength behind us.

When a composer puts us on parade,

There’s an uncomfortable sense of fake,

Akin to a staged naval battle meant

To entertain the host more than the guests,

Certainly not to bleed in the present.

Where were we? Words should attend discretely,

Carry your luggage of expectations

To your rooms, and then turn into docents

And old gossips itemizing awful

Deeds, flesh-slapping trysts, and rumors of ghosts

Who might visit you while you stay with us.

If you can see we’re only prancing through

Too-strictly preordained rules (words with E,

Words with A), you’ll shoo us out of the room.