Math and Sciencewritten by
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MATH & SCIENCE POEMS
In some young athletes' wild elation,
endorphins' powerful sensation
is warped through pride until at length
they use for ill their boon of strength.
Their victims, into mind's pursuits
once driven, tap a desperate gift -
'til vanity's now in cahoots
with wealth. Yes, mended is the rift
between them and the bully, who
is furnished guns with handes pearled
to spread control through regions new -
their countrymen, and then the world.
Why should the animal merely be
if body truly desire to feel?
What mind must think, I cannot see,
to say that thought alone is real.
Oh let the brain attain some ruth
upon the much-distracted heart.
For Earth and people health is truth;
should any man then take fate's part?
Let us therefore don our animal nature,
it's time individuals got once more rugged
and freedom recur to the joy of the storm,
looking again toward our rights and their future
from homes all techno-snoopery bugged.
But the garret's wiser than the dorm.
Exultance in physical energeis
does captured hearts un-tether -
from blandishments of fear them frees
in ev'ry change of the mental weather.
All the trihedral apices
of regular dodecahedrons
are sides midpoints of regular
their pentahedral angles all
meet centerpoints of sides of the
that circumscribe them in their turn.
These polyhedra alternate
and outward to infinity
(engulfing space in empathy) -
for either form may be inscribed
within or circumscribed about
the other - it's geometry.
They call it "O," the point they make,
extending thence six segments straight
of which three plus directions take
called forward, right or up; create
their opposites - back, left or down -
which they are styling "negative,"
then stretch the ends past edge of town -
each duple axis, positive
and minus, perpendicular
to plane where other two may live.
These map-makers then go too far,
three signed coordinates t'assign,
three distances from ev'ry point
to get to any axis line.
What omnipresent powers annoint
these heads that feign to compass all
of space? They fear no vanity
nor reckon hearts of poetry
can sing their own geometry
where most ingenious pride must fall,
can rhyme how technocratic men
colleague in Mother Earth's disgrace.
Let reason's evil graphing then
in its cartesian plane or space
be closed in mirror pentagons
or by dodecahedrons bound
that center on the origins
of weapons formuls we've found,
derived by fiends who view 'til late
their cursed, fallen, broken state -
contracting them nigh unto death.
The rest of space can take a breath,
its denisens no more play rubes
all sliced and diced in squares and cubes.
Despite each migit-devil's jibe,
a huge icosohedral room
then let some poets circumscribe
about each moaning jail-tomb
so now imps view, at their release,
on each triangular bulkhead
old bards portrayed who've found surcease
from diabolic plottings dread,
or angels framed in trinities
who do with hellions what they please.
What mathematic formulae
can then descrdibe
the undulations of a purring cat
against the young chorine's
warm soft pulsant hand,
she daydreaming there in the wings,
in all her vivacious pulchritude
as she hums her up-coming solo -
Indeed, with what determinants
can great Logic itself demonstrate
the writhings of the girl
when, after the show, she lets you
sweep her away from the stage door
to some nearby motel, as
the naughty thing must let
an appeealingly avid fan, and
it's your hand she writhes against
with such wanton abandon - what geometries
can plot in space-time that shape's
calescent motions, the heaving of her thighs?
What coordinates can hold her locus?
None. No coordinates, no formulae,
She may be limned by Art alone.
An apple falls upon the artist.
A crab it is, of apples tartest.
His sinus clears, the thoughs of Her
she plants to lift him in the air.
Above the prairie turf he hovers.
He still cannot believe they're lovers.
To make imaginings real is not
so difficult - this painting that I've got
half-done grew from my first reflecting that
a meld of hilly landscapes with the flat
would change straight lines of depth that merge,
toward point of vanishing converge -
they, depth-ward into distance shrinking,
diminuating sign-waves now become
A place as uniform as plane is this,
though hilly as one upland drizzles kiss,
but morning scene, sea-surge-like suburb-scape
from eaves-height viewed through eyes tear-eddies drape.
Impose, on third-D sign-waves growing small,
elliptic ripples, major axes all
contracting, snaking down horizon rays:
The anonym is blue some summer days.
Perhaps that background city's made him sad,
a tedium he grows less and less glad
to go to weekday mornings in that town,
some parabolic tower's looming frown.
How could Sci-Biz be fiendisher
than let each man be publisher
too any group he may have planned
of works of art by any hand
that may appeal to ear or eye -
while passing all their authors by
as without rights to property?
and capitalist avarice
have jinxed all human fancy's trip -
full many a bard this off must piss -
how can the fellow get a grip?
"Cold Warriors on Terror"
Cartesian origin-point where
some eight trihedral angles meet,
apex quadrantal sectors share -
thence radiates a space-map sweet.
Here all points in the Universe
with three coordinates they chart
and, risking any hubris-curse,
they take the measure of God's heart.
They spin the orbit of the Earth
and integrate th'ellipsoid's size:
their thought as much as God's is worth,
they can their fellow man's despise.
They'd stamp his world with numberings,
assess, evaluate all men -
possess each of Earth's lifeless things,
control the living ones again.
Unquantifiable are both
a citizen's identity
and personality - if loath
to laud self-styled deity -
while they're instrinsic also to
the happiness he dreamed it was
his right forever to pursue -
that dream they cannot let come true.
"Soft Integer for a Hard Scientist"
Nooontime up and down the street,
people passing who don't meet -
but, to the eyes of any one
of whom, does not the sultry sun
suggest a figure of most fun?
It's the number of girls, less
the ones departing vision's field,
plus new ones on the scene revealed
at each successive moment, yes -
then multiplied by all the boys
at those same times the walker sees:
this product represents the joys,
all this stroll's possibilities
of bliss - a varied value, Elf!
So why not factor in yourself?
Yet wait, did we think to subtract
all pairs of whom either ought lacked
of his or her majority,
or celebate had vowed to be,
had lapsed into senility,
or else was someone else's spouse,
or was in jealousy far gone,
or didn't turn the other on,
or wasn't well - but let's not grouse!
It's still so great, this journey's sum,
the chance for couplings and menages,
as too smite jealousy's gods dumb
and Cupid move to shoot barrages.
None knows but you, Master Fantastic,
those neighborhoods so orgiastic.
Let X be yon hot gamboge star,
then minus-X is its opposite -
the isotope dump lands
sacred to the quick fix, easy buck,
taboo to any foot for ten millennia
on pain of death - perhaps a first
for man among the denizens
of the entire solar system,
that some acreage were for so long
made all unliveable.
So now on one hand we haave our gamboge Sol,
then these anathamatic mutant lands
upon the other - showing how,,
far from transcending mortal fate,
we've rather multiplied the risk of doom!
In all religions Science is hubristic.
'Twould be, if one true - unrealistic.
What may be a good match?
Who knows who's good for whom?
Computer minds may hatch
a choice to light the gloom
'round what love's searchers hope to see
as true compatibility.
Desire and chemistry may weld
together two before they think -
whom differences are then beheld
too draw toward separation's brink.
What makes, in two, them to discover
their fondest joy in one-another
so each feels any other lover
would love's inspiration smother?
Some program sure can this deduce
with some x-rated questionnaire
to fill the data-base. What use,
then, Cupid taking to the air?
Only America could turn one guy
into a war vet and his brother into a hippie
suffering from a Military-Industrial complex.
Oh that unconscionable science
should countenance such
unconsciousness of conscience
in its business functionaries
and its security services.
Why should the depredations
of foreign wars or domestic rebellions
discompose the bonds of friendship
between brothers - why should not
a tear of nostalgic pacifism
fill the eye of the veteran parading
around the corner into view
of the anarcist warranted protester
cheering the "protector of rights
and freedoms" grinning? Why should not
fraternal rapprochment grow between
those who fight wars and those who fight
to end them? Why shouldn't they sympathize
with one-another's inclinations
toward pursuit of the same happiness?