Listening to Pharaoh Sanders' Karma between the items
On the day's agenda, stunned to still be part of a day, much less
One with an agenda, it occurred to me that the pure shivaree
Of noise in the middle of "The Creator Has a Master Plan"
Makes a more impressive article of artistic faith than the typical
Creative work asserting an orderly universe. The usual trick
Is to embody the credo in an art that is stately and classical.
But the challenge lies in believing there's plan in the mess
Our cosmos presents us, Voynich manuscript that it is,
By which, no, I don't mean deliberately fabricated
By some super anthropic intelligence, but wholly weird
And indecipherable, though apparently rife with meaning.
We're rife with meaning, and part of it, and willing
To suspend disbelief for the merest hint of symbolic relief,
But the thing itself, so appealing while it still could be whatever
We wish it to be--power, peace, and happiness for every dream,
Black magic, alchemy, eternal life, the truth about our ancestry--
It's actual measure not yet taken, not yet collapsed
Into one dull particulate splatter of facts, might be a sham,
Nonsense masquerading as hermetic wisdom, nothing
Gussied up to look like something an emperor, any greedy
Hungry human, might crave, might like. Blow your horns
All at once. Blow your lungs out, Jim. Signal noise.
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