In the beginning, before the big bang,
the void was all. And strangely charmed within it,
Time was waiting, sitting on its hands.
And Space was neither finite nor infinite.
Entangled quantum’s spooky distant mate
is spinning counter-clockwise and is sending
Time’s arrow singing back. The string vibrates
to music ever present, never ending.
Then logos, immanent, became the word.
The word was God and it was good.
A spark explodes. The word made flesh is heard.
There beats a pulse. A pulse and blood.
We think. Therefore we are, we think, all-knowing.
The universe expands. Our gall is growing.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Joe
Crocker would be pleased to hear them.