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.
