God exists, and if God exists, therefore God exists.
Syllogistic conclusion, conclusive.
A mother dies—a few minutes after, a chime
on the porch chimes. “It’s mother saying, ‘All
is okay. I’ve passed over.’” Her son, a nonbeliever,
succumbs. He reiterates: “Yes, it’s mom,” he says
to his grieving siblings. And then catches
is contagious. Mystery codified is
It’s evolutionary, the son concludes, rather than
mystery. Mystery is hopeless. Nonmystery
We’re germinated, then quickly
swathed. To be seeded human is to be
seeded unhuman, inhuman. There are
no starting points for the individual.
We don’t allow facts
to interfere with tradition, wrote Orwell . . .
somewhere. And if there are no facts,
merely disorder? Tradition binds,
questions do not.
Mankind seeks indefinite life. Why?
A crocodile doesn’t.
I, too, am susceptible. I, too, am afraid.
People obliterated in wars, floods,
they must go somewhere. Life cannot
be so dismissive.
I watch a gaggle of
Muslin girls—shopping for clothes.
They’re amazingly innocent. But
they stick together. They’re
duplicates, triplicates, and so on: protected.
Like the Hasidim
in their black suits in 90-degree weather,
the Catholic clergy in their gold wrappings.
Buddha in his belly. All’s right with the world.
Evolution, the son says. What has
evolved? Fear? Can it be that simple?
And if it is that simple?
I can get by, but I knock on wood . . .
What else can I do?
Imitation. No, not despair.
Imitation. We’re solitary but
of a species, but who does that occur to?
Humanness is a punishment,
damnation . . . Psychosis