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.