by Christine O'Leary-Rockey


If God is an algorithm
As you swore one night between us
Then heaven must surely exist two steps from
Beginning broken and chaotic
its equations curling as snowflakes and stairwells do.
And I wonder if all algorithms are truly coloric
Color being purely a myopic thing -- unspokenly linked
to those places
in the black of our eyes.

Perceptually in transit we are not
capable of true motion. Heraclitus said that the river always
So we sat beside it and watched
'til no serpent's back broke the stillness of its flow
to challenge this change, forcing sameness by presence that knows
no static bounds.

If Heraclitus was indeed on target that
All motion is true motion and there is only motion
Then that would explain God's inconsistency and His
Damned fickle behavior
We can go on.
But if we don't, we are bound by this puzzle and its
superstitious need
To get beyond space and into the realm of sound. And color.

To end this mystery here -- there is no more -- color.
It is no more real than sound or love or metaphysics.
And if a tree fell in the forest
nobody would give a damn.

Not if they knew. Know they now? Thyself
To whit -- There are no revelations. Not in sound or color.
No, If He speaks, He speaks in numbers.
He speaks in negatives and symbolic logic. Logarithms that go
squawk in the night.
His movement -- at a hundred gyrations per second --
lulls our perfect senses
into a sense of time/no time/timelessness
We mistake this movement for song.

We perceive radiation only -- its bright millobars blind us
As passionate reflection --
So do we tout the brocaded sky, serendipitously black and
Each embedded icicle in a perfect relation
To the one behind it, around it -- the cool red
The white hot
The perfect seeds far off and away

Are dull repeated patterns that fit just so
into our little keyholes -- though these tones exist only as
Electromagnetic gray.
Sound and color. God help us, sound and color.
To sense is to translate, each tap a nudge to real numbers
We vastly we calculate we react and transcribe
God may be lost there, hiding w/in the physicists' dark matter
But truly He left us the pieces of His tools

We are linked
Body to mind
We are one soul -- we chemical dreamers --
charming the snake of physicality


Poem copyright 2001 by Christine O'Leary-Rockey

Illustration copyright 2001 by Carl Goodman


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