Printed from WriteWords -


by  seanfarragher

Posted: Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Word Count: 776
Summary: Why is Life Worth Living?

In 50 BC, Lucretius wrote “On the Nature of Things.”

I write with a similar plan and what is intention
in the scheme of matter? I ask philosophy and rats
without eye lids we call politician and poet and
when we act as scribe we are forgotten but even
our small changes (in the copy of the actual) will
change what is understood, and give us some
dangerous plan for paranoia to unmask with
flying birds and the reductio ad absurdum
of incorruptible fire.

Why is "life worth living" Bishop Sheen asked his audience?
Where does it begin his angels asked when I was a boy?
Roll life between your fingers and assuage the grit.
How do you measure the vectors velocity and momentum?
You know nothing more than pedantry or how to confuse life
with details burned into the scars worn with the subtle symbols
that sophistry of noun, verb and the object of predicate announce.
I know that this was never grammatical pocket-pool.

I search for more than proof of death.
Where can the exit set up, and the entrance
revise itself every second later. The unique rose settles
its petals quietly and what was once perfect
has become less. No, it’s not baseball and
New York Yankees beating Boston forever.

What fun would that be? We need the spectacle
to have a chance at choice. If we consider rules,
special circumstances, nuance, graft, grift and
the usual liars’ politics creates to settle facts
in rows of corn without pesticides to enhance
mood, or the cross pollination of the cards. End
means greater than standard measure of loss.

Caught undressed in the shower we cover
what we can even when we do not want to be
dressed for him or her or the dangerous, subtle
connection of sperm and ovum. Adolf Hitler
began as we did in that first aria, and by external
threads we wobble intact on the oaken floor.
No, we are not ordinary red checker moves.
We’re not the guns of Whites in Russian Civil War.
We are not anarchist green as we move carefully
between the Ukraine and Moscow. What can we
measured and what be taken for granted, forgotten
as bad history. We cannot ignore changes that run
down the middle of the lava flow to suppress red
checkers safe against arms of the King McCarthy.
When we act, we change. When we stand-still,
we change by the choice of one potential direction.
We cannot do anything in life without affecting outcome
or fates of the move ten moves down the graphs of foreplay.

We will be King and Queen on what ever political name
the future defines as that next action before the next when
we cannot predict future choice, for when we act, we do not
know the outcome. Games are approximate skeletons.

Don’t guess. We are not things. This is not twenty
or ten questions on the nature of universe, as Lucretius
would have us write in blue books for University grades
to measure performance and indicate results
in the purchase sports cars, scholarships
or in my case such respect that the most
beautiful woman in the world gave me
in the back seat of a 1949 Ford that full
measure of our originality. Sex is not the subject
of this discourse that ontogeny remaindered as object
minus object subset two. We post anonymously on the
bulletin board to impress without action, or so we think
we are taking risks. I measure love and Saint Chance
screamed louder to sing outcome and you have it all.
Just lead Sir, Madam. “Lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil for thine is the power and the glory
and the kingdom forever and ever and ever Amen.

Amen. They thought they had the answers
when they executed King Charles I and then the mob
caught Louis XVI and his loyal Queen.

Stuart and Bourbon shared genes and blood. Kings were
cousins in the long line of French royal Louis and Capet.

Do you think the choice would have been different long
ago or does it depend on lust and that deposit
in the vacuum where nothing can be planned
and chance is the only God we reasonably follow
unless we wish to cry and celebrate irrational
love, agape and miracle lies transformed into facts.

Truth is the least important entrance and exit we expect
when we look out over the Grand Canyon and fall in love
with the beauty of rocks, sky and the chance of water
dissolving this rock and not the other trillion choices
the artist takes before we formally and imperfectly die.