Robinson Crusoe in the T.D.

I could stand in bliss on this clean
Beach of theory forever: no footprint
Mars the sweep of concept; the lean
Bleached noon of non-evident
Subtracts my shadow side and knights
Me royal with what science knows.
Cathedraled in abstraction's icy light,
I pity stained glass for its rose.

I could ignore the roiling tides
Upon my right, where clear conjecture's light
Declines to tech, and application slides
In to take it's white shark's bite
And drags our expectations out beyond
Predicted depths. Here blood and blame
Salt the waters, our dreams respond,
And each servant tool extends its claim.

I could obscure the fever swamp
Upon my other hand: ignore Athena
Ankle-deep in wetware, duck the romp
Of mythogems in that jungly arena
Where whispering familiars hatch plots
Against my favorite personas, the station
Where my sly amphibian heart, crouched hot,
Solicits kiss and transformation.

Except: my fugitive and human DNA
Betrays that pure place. The palisades
Of paradigm fall open for its play;
It wants everything from axiom to escapade,
Hugs the wild machine, makes feast or
Family of odd ideas, scorns the tidy
Plot, generates another Easter,
And awaits it's dark good Friday.

* The theoretical Division of the Los Alamos National Laboratory is
commonly called the T Division, or the T.D.

Joe Wrobel