the tweak humanity craves most
is making fortune more intelligent:
we hope to intervene cleverly,
make luck more compassionate,
tame it with charm and symbol,
spell and secret.
make the body less awkward at rest,
less troublesome when genuine.
our globe-wide drive is to foster the aspiration
that our experience is seen,
maybe not by a god, but by the silent world,
the exterior not quite happy and not quite neutral:
the prayer-not-prayer that our being
is the earth’s being,
that our not-being changes the earth’s being,
that first one on the bus and
first one to hit the head are linked
by more than time.
that’s our trend and symptom right now,
that we think we can alter
and that our futures—the future—
depends so heavily on that alteration.
if only we could even the odds
on a pair of loaded dice we can’t see,
if only we could add a few more options,
attributes, hit points
to a double helix we assume is infinite,
ripe for the hacking.
it never occurs to us that the contest is closed,
that the sweepstakes is no longer taking entries.
(it’s easy to glimpse over a shoulder and call melancholy,
adopt voyeur’s privilege and claim diagnosis)—
all the entries are tallied and
winner must be present at time of drawing;
leaving gardens will not be used
as an excuse for not redeeming prize.
you know, it’s the spirit
that mandates you being cameraless
when you see a sad landscape,
and as soon as you realize
you’re without a lens
(which is never really true)
a pain/throb moves through
your lowermost stomach.
when moving, you have all these opportunities.
you don’t have these streaks and strokes when still.