Geometric Allegory

Part 1 Maybe you’ve heard of The Infinite Monkey Theorem. It goes something like this:          I f you take an infinite number of monkeys           and give them an infinite number of typewriters, One of the monkeys will eventually,           quite haphazardly,           rewrite William Shakespeare’s masterpiece, Hamlet.   Word for word, If they’re given enough time,      I t will happen - With enough Monkeys, Typewriters, And time. l,im,n ixk, And what of our bodies? And what of our spaces? Eventually, The same can be said of everything: Every single atom we've gathered From across the universe and beyond, From all that we see And all that we don’t see. Everything will implode And collapse in that glowing, fiery crucible Where finite moments restructure themselves And form into a newly minted seed. Given enough time,  We all melt into a seed And all that ever was Hardens into this l

I heard the name God  In passing today. It surfaced  singular,  Up from the background  In a steady blur of conversation. "God." When I heard God,  I immediately thought of a magician.   That's what I automatically do: I envision A magician standing on a stage.    Is that strange? No matter the context —    Be it at a wedding,   A funeral,  In church Or on TV... Or even, as I've said,  As a single word overheard in a conversation— When I hear the name God I see God the Great There on the stage.  His suit fits him nicely, And atop H is head, A black velvet stovetop hat Blends into his thick, slicked-back hair. (As is custom, he pulls me from his hat, But not yet... Or not today) He wears a  flowing cape, too; It matches his black shoes, And his mustache, waxed,  Points like a tuning fork. I'm drawn to his dark, dimpled cheeks, And I swoon in the scent of his cologne. It smells of  Honey-t

He showed you the vineyard And spoke in ancient Hebrew. T ranslated,  He said,  "The vines--ancient and rooted--form a fabric mesh." You stood among the tangled vines,  And He showed you a vision Where modern men toiled in place, And they watered the vines.    Who were these working men?  Were they the ones who toiled and labored  To carry the enormous engraved ceramic jugs?  These jugs were filled with the waters  That sprung from their hearts.   These were the same men who  Poured their poisoned waters  There upon the fields,  And the fields swallowed their hatred and lust  As if it were water. The vineyard is no metaphor.   It is the entire world,  And the men, those alive and those dead, a ttend its needs As they've always done,  Each in his own way. This vineyard is where the wars began  When man fell from God  And traded fertile soil for dust.  Dust to dust Amid the ash The men in suits  Earned their cash  In dust to dust. Because of them, We learned to swallow di