On Reading That Some Physicists Posit We Are Living in a Computer Simulation

On Reading That Some Physicists Posit We Are Living in a Computer Simulation
Illustris_Dark_Matter_and_Gas

An analysis shows there is a 50% chance that we are living in a synthetic reality – Scientific American

If life is a lucid dream or some near-perfect
computer simulation, do I risk waking up

to a world in which I can’t embrace you?
I was so young when I came to feel that

death is as simple to understand as the eons
before our birth: we are not, and then we are,

and then we are not again. I’m a mystic. I
love the weight of the cosmos, how it feels

in the palm of my hand. I reach for your
hand in order to hold on to all that I wish

were eternal but stand to lose. I can’t dwell
on loss, least of all when thinking of you;

and if none of this is real, if there are
truths stranger than our brief mortality,

all the more reason to lie down together and
demand that the earth reveal what it knows—

to discover who we are when stripped of fear,
our bodies trembling at the edge of reason.

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poetry

Diary

Ages ago I kept a diary in a hand legible to
none but me. I read it on my knees as just-fallen

rain clings to pinecones like wet feathers,
the evening slips into its velvet gown,

and starlight pitter-patters on my head
like drops of gallium. I am thankful

the day is dying, for I have forgotten how
to live. Who wrote those words belongs

to an empire that collapsed under its
own grandiose weight, its high priest

· 1 min read
poetry

Enlightenment

I was seventeen when I read Alan Watts’ The Way of Zen
a couple pages at a time, putting down the book to observe
sunset drape itself over my mind, falling asleep thinking
of not thinking, hearing a flock of birds and imagining myself
flapping against the sky and recalling that I am sky. Once,
the book well-thumbed and creased and read twice over,
I felt an ant crawl the length of my arm like a nagging
sense that

· 1 min read
poetry

Foul Weather Friend

I am a foul weather friend, dear poetry.
I have paid you no mind when spring rains
wash clean the marble statues of gods
and a cheery sun
reads aloud your sweet inscriptions,
nor when awed children skip through museums,
nor accordion-song fills the subway,
nor a stranger does another stranger
a kindness,
nor blueberries are so ripe they bleed sugar,
nor velvet chocolate cake knocks you dizzy with love,
nor, after making love, my wife’s perfume
clings

· 1 min read