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rob's picture

Poem

I feel like if Papa G can write an autobiography as a science paper, then it seems to me that I can write a poem as a response.

Dirt
In the beginning, we woke up
And looked around and swallowed.
Some drowned in the sensory submersion
And forgot that they were Breathing,
developing telescopes and microscopes
and periscopes Out of their minds to see
atoms or galaxies or cells with strong membranes
and organize the tumultuous and messy waves.

But how does the Who emerge from the What?

Others realized that we Choose
What we have seen. We construct
our reality, and the hardest labor
Comes in making a good choice.

But how does the Good emerge from the Who?

And maybe matter is meaningless.
It’s just energy and dust.
It has structure but not logic.
Yet all understanding is in our upper brains
Where every thought, feeling and hope
is probably just a misplaced neuron,

And all we are is dirt?

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