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The Deronda Review |
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notation for "Grand Unified Theory," the attempt to explain creation and its aftermath by means of the laws of physics]
We crumple the cellophane wrapper
of a plump egg sandwich, savor a raspberry scone, steam a grande latte, string ourselves along in cosmo workshops quarking the electron voltage and claim it's too cold for the truth We fuss over the Cru, upgrade our headsets, run the TiVo, buy a Porsche SUV, find a mechanic or a chemist for a turbocharge or lube, get some work done, have a biotech consult, grind thousand-hour days staring at the plasma, stabbing at equations, dying to live forever and while we're at it to prove the truth We're bright enough to know the truth, mutant bacteria with smarts to figure its history from a microwave Synapses conspire, sparks jump the gap, and we already know: on the honking freeways in our white-noise subdivisions, amidst the jack-smashing of construction to construction and the whining of the poor and the defeated, above the clatter of the engines thrashing high tech grain in corporate fields and the chatter of white men talking while we wonder at the pretty ties and patent leather lies of the power dancers We already know that the truth: is in a gap that a trillion trillion volts won't bridge and the most elegant knots and loops of the brainiest chalkboard scribblings and trickiest combinations of ones and zeros won't explain, can't explain, why the Beginning and the End are One We soothe ourselves, toes wriggling in warm sand, the sun's rays and crashing of the sea like a tranq that blankets our crank-skanked skin Yet we know Pills kill the itch Thrills fill the ditch, the depression in our souls we travel over and alongside but can't seem to get around; clawing into niches, curling into crevasses until we and the rock are One And still we know The End and the Beginning are One The gap is not a void ii We are less afraid, aren't we, of the monsters in our bedrooms than the truth of the werewolves in our cities ripping with teeth and claws, leaping upon us from behind sidewalk trees than the truth of the cadavers in our courtrooms and pod people in our supermarkets than the truth of the aliens under study in Area 51 than the truth We fear the gap, fear the truth (that we already know) which is the end of our fears, which gives the power to send the monsters and werewolves, the cadavers, pod people, and aliens, and their extended family of deadly dreaded cousins back where they came from iii The journey to the end of time and the journey within are the same journey ending in the same place -- home Particle tracings are not a map home If we would only turn our heads from the screen's green tracings we could do a gut check In the gut check is the knowledge that we are already home and there, there at home, there in the gap, is not an explanation but is His Moment then, now, and always, before He exploded the makings of star stuff into existence Our home is His home Our key fits the lock, of course; it is the key to our home, after all; we can turn it any time, open the door, go inside and punch out, for there is no more work to do We know the truth, but will we face the music? Will we forever line dance in frantic separate spaces, point and spin to the sharp-stick-in-your-eye rhymes of angry hip-hop hustlers, sweat solo in ecstacy on air-guitar trips to faraway electric notelands? Or will we dance together cheek to cheek to the moonglow doo-wop harmony of His Kingdom's joyous song at Home where the view across the horizon is serene and the Departure and the Arrival are One – Richard Ross from the Current issue of The Deronda Review 
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