Yay!! There’s snow on Science Hill.
Finally - snow, I love it. Cold, I love it.

Science says men evolved from apes.
Maybe I evolved from polar bears
or those abominable snow people
—yeti—that no one can photograph.

You can’t just reject that outright,
say the odds are minuscule,
just because it’s new and edgy.
I mean, where’s your science—
your unbiased, clinical perspective?

We could end up in the National Geographic.
This kind of story is very much their aesthetic.
I can provide lots of material—I have baby photos
and I’m not uncomfortable about the pressure.

Maybe it’s time to put your voice out there.
The world always needs the comfort of new voices.
You could influence social media—everyone wants THAT.
This is a buffalo, a skibidi, blessing in disguise.
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Songs for this:
Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee
Unlike me by Kate Havnevik

It’s a broken world
we need imperfect solutions
and there are plenty of questions

is it even possible to correct systemic
problems with individual solutions?

I recycle, so everything’s ok, ya?

some would usher in a revolution
while others would stand pat, thinking
they can marginally beat the house

the young believe the old are problematic,
out of touch and largely to blame for the world
the old push back on youthful, impractical,
self-indulgent and self-righteous idealisms

both groups must eventually wrestle with thorny questions

I doubt we could all agree on a short manifesto
or even a pithy rallying cry.
How about something brutal, almost offensive?

Dylan Thomas suggested we rage against the dying of the light,
but then again, it seems that's all we do these days—rage.

There’s a Korean concept called hwabyung,
or “burning sickness”—an intense, suppressed rage
that can blind and destroy us if we’re not careful

Science says we face a direct and bludgeoning future,
that we must be tenacious with the next phase of our evolution
—but must we be adults? Science is so 2014, and we’re all so smart.
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Songs for this:
Dance the Night Away by The Mavericks
I Hope You Dance by Lee Ann Womack

Webs of stories form beliefs,
influencing actions,
creating a concept of me—
until I become myth.

A synthesis of cells,
speaking electric tongues,
a possession of matter
by patterns that think.

Through a brain and a spine
and everything between,
a unity emerges:
scattered fragments
woven whole.

Interactions form bonds,
all the way up, all the way down.
Outside and within:
culture consuming society,
society consuming self.

Self devours body,
body devours mind,
biology consumes chemistry,
chemistry consumes physics,
down to quantum foam.

I’m told that I’m a dream produced
by time and space and DNA, that’s organized in such a way
that chemistry and physics are enough to make it dream,
so let’s accept that really there’s no ghost in the machine.

But still it seems that I exist, and isn’t it amazing dreams
can interact with other dreams,
do calculus and higher math,
gaze at the stars, make art, make love,
investigate it all and find
we’re just another accident of chemistry and space and time.

People ask how scientists know it’s truly fall,
And people tell them about the Fall equinox.
That we know it’s Fall when the sun dips below the horizon,
On both halves of the globe.
That the coming of fall is when the people in the southern side of the earth,
Have spring.

That is how science knows it’s fall,
But how do we know the date, the hour?
I could tell you when fall is here,
But it won't be down to the minute.
I know fall has come when the winds turn cold,
And the leaves of the oak trees are bleeding.
When the streets are empty of the children playing,
When I sit on a fallen birch log on the beach,
Staring at the water, but I’m shivering in a flannel,
And the water is frozen over.
When i come home and the tea kettle is going,
But all the summer lemon tea is put away.
Little changes in these things, they will lead me astray.

The coming of fall.

That’s how I know the fall is coming,
Not by watching the hours of my days.
Not based on when the sun rises in Iran,
But by the feel of the winds,
But by the blood of the leaves.
And by the tears that have fallen,
On these empty streets.

The Fall Of Twenty-Twenty Four.

The irresistible force paradox.
When an unstoppable force
meets an immovable object,
they co-co-opt a new loving universe.

extraordinary claims
extraordinary evidence
elusive question
evident answer

COCO

Think it a wound
That has been cut open,
All of this
Pouring out of some person.
As blood like ichor.
Of Uranus a pouch, a receptacle, a quiver;
Time in consumption,
Like an arrow autochthonic
In the breast of existence.
Nursing the young.
Of Cronus a reflection, a refection, a ripple;
Time in digestion,
Like an innominate derivation
From the navel of continuance.
Bringing them up.
Of Zeus a reverberation, a spark, a sliver;
Time in expression,
Like an aborted secret
From the honey of speleothemas.
Shaping them out.
Of Apollo a radiance, a ray, a participle;
Time in extension,
Like an auspicious countenance
From the mucilage of angiospermae.
Birthing the echo.

'Twas the night before the Big Bang, when all through the void
Some notions were stirring, towards Darwin and Freud
Superstitions rejected and hung out to rot
It’s shocking how quick we completely forgot
Where cryptical symbols were sacredly spoken
The stories upended and images broken
From out of such Chaos, a chariot of Truth
An empirical prancing of paws on the roof
Now, Newton! Now, Einstein! Now, Herr Oppenheimer!
Now listen! the odious tick of the timer
From the Apple of Knowledge forsaking the plums
For probable visions and practical sums
When wisdom, by Turing, is put to the test
Then where are those letters to Santa addressed?
If coal from the mischievous miscreant’s stocking
Keeps motors of industry ticking and tocking
Then icecaps will vanish from under the elves
And Bezos will eagerly fill up our shelves
So with glittering objects and shiny bright trophies
We bid you Good Luck with a train of emojis

I.
At 3 AM, when prayer beads tick like Geiger counters,
my thoughts uncoil—copper-bellied serpents
tasting darkness with forked mathematics.
The mind's eye dilates. Space folds
like origami in reverse.
                          Here: the edge
where meditation meets vertigo,
where breath becomes sine wave,
oscillating between being and void.

II.
Two doors in the skull's quiet temple:
one opens on supernovas blooming like black dahlias,
one on atoms waltzing in their quantum ballroom.
Both lead down labyrinthine DNA spirals
to what we've spent eons fleeing—
that first serpent's whisper:
                               dissolve.

III.
Listen: the sound of synapses firing
like distant stars going nova,
each thought a light echo
bouncing through time's curved throat.
The heart grows dense as collapsed stars,
while dreams crystallize into sacred geometry,
snowflakes falling upward through dark matter.

IV.
Memory: that holographic river
where time swims backward through its own reflection.
I cup moments like bioluminescent plankton,
watch them slip away, pixel by pixel,
leaving ghost-prints on retinal nights.
Each lost second transforms me—
tree rings of light recording
what darkness taught the leaves.

V.
In the space between heartbeats,
neural networks weave myths from starlight,
encoding infinity in finite flesh.
We are legends dreaming ourselves awake,
ancient light translated into carbon,
into stories that birth galaxies
between firing neurons.

VI.
Observe the great devourings:
Universe swallows galaxy swallows star
swallows planet swallows society swallows self—
recursive hymn, eternal return.
Watch consciousness eat reality
eat quantum uncertainty
eat itself, until nothing remains
but foam on probability's shore,
glittering with all possible worlds.

VII.
Deep in the amygdala's forest,
where fear grows like luminous fungi,
I find fragments of cosmic egg-shell,
evidence of what we hatched from.
Each cell remembers its stellar womb,
each atom hums its hydrogen lullaby,
while DNA spells out in base-four code:
you are everyone you have ever been.

VIII.
When Brahman's eye blinks,
superposition collapses into now—
wave functions falling like autumn leaves
into singular moments of being.
Time is a spiral staircase
wrapped around a strand of RNA,
leading both up to heaven
and down to the quantum foam
where angels dance with quarks.

IX.
At the event horizon of ego,
where self meets infinite regression,
I dissolve like a koan in the mind of God.
The observer becomes the observed,
the cosmic dance becomes the dancer,
until there's no difference between
the meditation and the mantra,
the equation and its solution,
the eternal and the now.

X.
All is recursion:
Light waves breaking on consciousness' shore,
consciousness breaking on light's distant edge.
We are the universe's way
of witnessing its own reflection—
billions of eyes opened in wonder,
each pupil a black hole
drawing light into meaning,
meaning into mystery,
mystery into math,
math into music,
music into flesh,
flesh into light.

                    Again.
                           Again.
                                  Again.