Eschatology of Reason:
The South Tower
Ah, Mercury! You kleptocratic little fuck. Wheeler-dealer, thief, errand boy. Part Bull Market, Part FTD truck. A corporate logo; Hood ornament on Detroit’s Highway to Hell. For my money, I’ll take Typhus Argos. Trade as a plague, irreversible— An ancestor of theoretical chaos, Destroying what he cannot know With more not knowing. But which pestilence blossoms Behind the crew team at Yale? Not Typhus, but Mercury’s cloned bouquet, The water Pawed by the oars Composes itself. Action in a medium without consequence. Perspective converging In a little world. A little world That flattens existence Until we all fall off. The Argonauts Ran into Talos, the first robot; Actually a home security device Engineered by Hephaistos, To guard the island of Crete For the wealthy industrialist, Minos. And Hephaistos, aside from being a god, Was the Bell Lab of his time. If those guys fucked up, What chance did Westinghouse have? Alan was not trying to convince us That his Universal Turing Machine Was indiscernible from a human being, But that he was. Remember the interrogator must distinguish A full-blooded woman from a computer That is pretending to be a man After a round in which the interrogator Tries to decipher a woman From a man claiming To be a woman. Parlor game theory. A charade For fear of exposure and disgrace Shapes desire in the engineer. So, more than the arts, Cognitive science is in The business of passion Out of raw need. A dangerous misrepresentation Of product R&D. It’s damned difficult to troubleshoot Such a dissembling epistemology. The Greeks Had been tipped off Early on To end of the world. Flatness was an ecological measure. That the instant the Argo Broke from the shore Typhus was helmsman Consciously selecting a path, but Also, unconscious agent and spore. But unhappy evolution found its denouement. The mechanism for the end of time was tripped. Anyway, that’s the prophecy. It took the callowness of The Renaissance & Enlightenment To make the West the agent For the end time. It took an ever encompassing Mathematical precision To lose sight of Iolcus. It took the abject denial of anything lost To expose the estrangement. And it left A.I., A.L. and Nanology, the ‘grey goo,’ To re-imagine generation In a way commensurate With a world where Every birth, every bud, all life Is too late. Kant said never treat a thing As though you know what it is. The antithesis of the ars sciencia. As Latour: “—[P]roperties Looking for a substance to belong too.” The mass media is The false bottom of history As history is The false bottom of experience. And science is The false bottom of reality So that reality’s conception Is beyond redemption. Every time the shuttle leaves, The earth prays that Its for good. That the exodus has begun To some terra-formed inferno That nano-robots have built. Great, Sterile, domed cities For pale, reasoning conquistocrats. Earth prays that their silicon and metal descendants Are already extracting the wealth From some otherwise ‘Purposeless’ world. Warp speed, white gods. Rush to truss up your destiny, O, Dust of Stars. Don’t expiate upon Mother any longer. She’s dead. I think you should go. The triggers and signs are everywhere. Kleptocrats are crowned kings. Is the meadow flowering in spring Life or death? The biologist asks “What is nature trying to tell us?” As though he just got here. When the ice cap melts His conclusions take the form Of his estrangement. A world so ill-suited for your science That Bruno offered you many others If you would forgo Destroying this one. This interlude has concluded badly. And there’s no desire to delay your departure Much less concoct some Form of retribution. She’s dead. You should go. For Seneca had said, “The Thessalian wood, [the Argo] Had destroyed the wise laws Of the world And the judicious separation of its shores; The sea suffered the scourge of oars And it, formerly separated from us, Became frightful to us.” The earth spread And gave birth To many strategies. But the timid annihilated everything. Imperial Seneca should know. The ingenuity to explore Is not sufficient for exploration. She’s dead. You should go. Water, water, everywhere But not a drop to drink. The next great market Turns out to be an unintended consequence Of attempting to purge metaphysics From language. The universality of the Second Law Is but the chill bucket of Goedel’s Second Theorem. Immortality is a stagnant, brine pool, The thickening endtime of our commedia, Even less when adopted for body parts, Drill bits and heat transfer. Who could have fucked up like this? What absurd metaphor Towers as a Paradise of sand, Furnaces and ore? “It’s too late baby.” Even as such infantalia Fizzes in the waves. “But we really did try to make it.” Like Hell, Grants for a dying planet. Extinction puffed For charitable contributions. Product recognition for the Apocalypse. Where Lockheed, Dow & Shell could co-exist With a Billboard top 100 armistice. But what subterfuge is otherwise That by its invention, Invents its own demise. Dien Bien Phu to Cu Chih. Altar & ant farm, French Olympus & Viet Minh Hades. Get ‘em while they last, Camus. And you’d think Nothing Would get their attention Like the end of the world, that You and I live through. If you first declare the numbers innocent, The L values, And the orders are dictated by the numbers, We all were just following orders And the engineers escape the noose. The industrialists escape the noose. The politicians and their counsel escape the noose. The West slips the noose Having mistaken a Moebius strip For a fan belt. Could Bayes’ Theorem have saved the Twin Towers? No. But it saved its creators. “Because it is visualizable, And thus cognitively accessible, [Because it is visualizable], [Because it is visualizable and thus] Molecular orbital theory Permits chemists to think About molecular structure And its implications... In a way that numerical methods do not.” Recursive in ways that numerical methods are not. Bohr cautioned about abandoning The Argo’s periplum. To instrument fly in the quantum. That lead to “artifacts from raw data, Features that mark no external, Physical structure or process...” That get lodged “within The body of scientific belief,... Inextricable” since the tyranny of its numbers Overwhelms any redress Or that accounting for regress Can’t be vectored in. A world “constructed...by the algorithms Data must pass through To be turned into scientific fact.” Thus we pass out of care of the world Just as Heidegger named it; One precious metal at a time. Reason is a zero sum game With coiled cables of history Leaving the slag and tailings As grave markers and Discount under the suspension of belief. The lies are not simply self-serving. They are hierarchical. Lies of tribute Foreshadowed in generic forms Of corruption among the elite. The enlightenment was renaissance For the lie Curing a set of universal applications. A method that legitimated any failure As preferred; Any contingent, inviolable, To hold off the oaths and curses Of the dying. Whole new markets for perfidy Sprang up on the frontiers of extinction. The gold of reason ‘Democratized’ to the brass of rationalization, Or the iron of serfdom Into the stainless steel of Genetic bondage. Diseases so virulent That there is no kinship in dying. Not even in the face of Armageddon. The described in the thrall Of the description. Taxonomies so fine A lifetime is required For their anchorites To isolate themselves From everything else. To cave dwell their grand metaphor For all the world to tour. To take the increments of the perceived And package them As perception itself. “...[T]he incorruptible logic Of a dispassionate mathematics.” And the day is rapidly approaching When we will not be grateful For this mediated inhumanity. Where we will not console ourselves With the hopes of the misguided And not be anxious about how they’re getting on Working the toxins And timetables For our masters.
Installments of "Deconstructing the Demiurge" include:
"Crimes of Passion"
"Work in Regress"
"Onionrings: Adding machines_Crisco"
"Collateral Damage, or The Death of Classics in America"
"How Dead Industrialists Dance, or Swing Time"
"Tale of the Tribe"
The poet's comments on his growing poem:
"Is Everyday Language Sufficient to Embody Everyday Experience?"