What’s in the Empty Set

The noise of too many meanings
Is probably doing more harm
To your brains than the noise of noise.

Easier to shake the ringing
That lingers in your ears for years
Than infestations of ideas.

Nothing worries you so damned much
As nothing does, when it’s all this
Nothing much of the meaningful

Already with you you should dread.
Break that curly shelled empty set.
Get that idea out of your head.

Rascal’s Wager

Rogue, you scrapings, gaunt prey,
Scum, dregs, offal, outcast
Of the drab sort, tricky,

Low, dishonest person,
Why should you get lucky?
The only wagering

Suitable for the likes
Of you is survival,
A bet on each next day

And maybe a ticket
Or two in lotteries
You’ll never win, although

You could, since you’ve little
To lose. Betting on faith
Or afterlife’s nature

Is too ridiculous
For the ridiculous,
Sly, grey, slouch-hatted you.

The Worshipful Cult of the Mercenary

Never overestimate
A truly professional,
Elite military class.

Remember the Immortals
Who failed at Thermopylae?
Recall the fall of the Han.

Caesar’s Equistres helped him
Elevate himself, divine
To his assassination.

The enslaved mercenary
Mamluks who came to power
Over the nations they served

And left them vulnerable,
The Swiss Guard that atrophied
On anachronistic pikes.

Every leader wants a guard,
And the people love elites
When they glow in uniforms,

But no one is protected
By gratitude for service
To the mercenary gods.

Patches of Prostrata

There’s no pretty name for these
Ugly, toxic-sap making,
Prostrate, pioneering weeds.

Spurge. A name suggesting filth,
Violence, maybe slaughter,
All at once, to anglophones.

Spare a kind thought for brave weeds,
And not just because they’re kin,
Behaviorally, to you,

The weediest of species—
Watching a few patches crack
Through the weight of concrete slabs,

Bear in mind that all of life,
That life itself is weedy,
Eating its way through the stones.

The stones may be innocent
Of lives arising from them,
But life’s name is insistence.

Blot

Imagine a swap—
The whole of Earth for
The Great Red Spot. Why?
Why not? They’re roughly
The same size, and if

One is just a storm
And blur in your mind,
The other the whole
World of history,
Evolution, life,

So what? It could be
The storm, unalive,
Is just as detailed,
Dynamic, patterned,
Rich, informative,

And worthwhile to some
Alien or god.
It’s a terrible lens,
The worst dolly-zoom,
To watch through too long,

To see not just you,
All humans, all art,
But the whole of life
You know to exist,
Swapped for one red spot.

Unnervingly

Consider noise, as in sounds

But also information.

Jonathan Berger, writing

On the commonalities

Of car alarms and chickens,

Terms both, obstinate rhythmic

Patterns . . . repetitive yet . . .

Unpredictable. This makes

Them noisy. They make a lot

Of noise. Let’s go back to that—

Obstinate rhythmic patterns,

Highly repetitive, yet

Also unpredictable.

Does this not largely describe

The whole of the universe?

Is this not the prime feature

Of all wave phenomena?

The oceans, the galaxies

The terrible storms of wind,

The rise and fall of peoples?

Alright, you can modify

Unpredictable a bit,

Damp it, give it an adverb,

Usually or frequently.

The cosmos clearly isn’t

Always unpredictable.

Your true love, information,

Is everywhere enabling

You to reassure yourself

Some noise is predictable.

But still, you’re often startled,

No? Prediction fails you so,

So often, and it’s dreadful.

As for obstinate rhythmic

Patterns, well that goes without

Saying, bears with repeating,

And repeats mercilessly.

It’s a cosmos of clucking

And explosive car alarms.

It’s relentless. It’s brutal.

It tells you almost nothing.

For the most part, you know noise.