POEM: Be Riffed of Life

He said
“The world is inert.”
I said
“You mean
Dead?”
He re-plied
That it is
Assure thing
Beyond doubt
I queeried
“On your incite
Or the out?”
By all means
Necessary
As you must
And arbitrary mold
No higher
Showing favor
To indistinguishable accidents
Through grub
And poorly aimed reproductions
Equally fluked
Know matter
How ever wondrous fits
Due too survivalists
All ready
Be rift of

This poem is inspired by many encounters that I have had with people who pose a or on “” — that inexplicably animated portion of our “inert” .  I have to chuckle a little, and mourn a bit, as this view that the is dead matter strikes me as a surpassingly of one’s inner , as either incurious, blind, or in about the mysterious of .  A striking feature of is that we tend to see the world as we are, not as the world is.  That anyone would argue that we are dead seems to preclude any lively conversation!  Fortunately, I often don’t listen to what people say.  I generally assume that if someone’s lips are moving that they are alive, despite their best arguments against it.  While anti-evolutionists manage to embody their arguments with their epic to evolve, materialists betray themselves with every movement, especially the ones that claim deep self-reflection.  Nonetheless, I strongly suspect that it is better to be riffed of than bereft of .  Pay no attention to the dummies behind the curtain, moving their lips but to know a veil.

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