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Good Acts are like Good Poems

"Good acts are like good poems.
One may easily get their drift,
but they are not rationally understood"
Albert  Einstein

Ach, mein guter Kumpel!
Ach, mein bester Freund!

how could I not have known,
the syncopation, the synchronization,
between what I write, and the impetuous impetus within,
that caustic sense that burns words
from my chest
directly onto the paper
are more than correlated,
even causation-ally related
after all, you, naturally, the master of relativity

but you know me Al,^
I, the quibbler from  NYC*
have to have a slightly different take,
in my gemeinschaft city of eight million strangers,
we always must have eight million and one
opinions

true dat, when I am on the fifth or sixth stanza,
realizing got no clue what the poem is rambling about,
but it sounds so good, lovely, pretty words,
why ***** it up with scientific rationality?

but good acts are easy, uber understood,
rationally we live to survive and
do what we to
make the species survive, common sense triumphs,
disguised as sacrifice, forgetting to roll the dice,
doing what comes like a good poem,
and what needs doing or writing
is so intuitively obvious,
just love poetry,
a global necessity

so check out Houston in two thousand and seventeen

here's hoping life in heaven ain't boring  
know that you've seen, peeked, peaked,
at the theory of everything,

resolving the contradictions
between general laws of physics
and those pesky tiny quantum mechanicals,
even solving that 'other' equation

GA = GP

Each morning, I wake before God has roused
The sun,
And that is just what we must do: To complete the busy-making-madness of a job. To compose the email, to manipulate the story, to rope the client, to extol the virtues of money and shore up the pillars of industry.

Though we sigh as we do: there is no shine in an empty inbox. Not that we ever see it—

Each day, we are gaveled:
More, and greater, and bigger, and best. Which is exactly what we do, but our wrangling and sending and crafting and praising of profit is never sufficient: More, and greater, and bigger, and bester than best.

In the sands of the sun, we are erecting Ozymandias.

—fired not by passions, not by growth, not by light, but by false engines: caffeine and fear and shame.

It is 7pm on a Tuesday and I hear the sun whisper, its orange lids closing: I have risen and shone another day. So have you. Now:

Rest.