It's What It's

We can say
It is what it is

But we can't say

It is what it's.

Or

It's what it's.

We an say

What it is it is.

But we can't say

What it's it's.

Or

What it is it's.

What the rule it?

Occam Has No Conductor

It starts as noise—chaos (call it)

bruit. Then, in the sonic miasma, a note

hard, loud, singularly indistinguishable

from the cacophony. And then another

giving shape to what has come before—

a loud dim din of melody. As long as you live there

will always be noise. And in the noise

melody, infinite overlapping

like symphonies on so many together turning turntables.

The joy not of life but in it.

Not the wonder of the universe,

Not the miracle of mind,

Not the blessing of the church 

But the blessings in the church.

Love in a field of indifference.

You say there’s nothing new here. That’s so.

These words still sound within the old vocabulary, within the old old language

and so you miss them if you listen hard.

The opposite of the rattle in the hum of the car.

Tinnitus on top of everything else.

If I suggest that God did not create the universe 

but was created by it and lives here 

have I excluded myself from all religion?

Such a God no one needs.

Such a God explains nothing.

Maybe Occam has another job for God.

Religion is an industry but

in that industry a melody

the managers didn’t put there

and can’t hear. Hear the shrill whistle

issuing order into sounds

confused. The diamond in the carbon deposit.

The possibility that the noise itself is a melody I can’t entertain. 

Zap all the symphonies ever made into space.

Let aliens hear them. And let one clever one among them posit

a conductor. 

Now listen.