Endless Figures and Findings
One moment the wideness of the sea,
nothing, the next,
abruptly
land and the dream life of projects, figures,
some kind of treasure mountain.
Schubert, still sweating, hears the music already,
the giant seaport, its tankers,
cranes and skyscrapers, kicks Cage,
“Time to get up, Mr. Zen Master.”
The little ferry from Fukuoka moors,
finds the quick bus and fluid connection,
another city, another hotel,
sleeping it off and
on to the convention center,
the human frontier, the science program.
“How do you manage that?”
Franz’s temples being battered
from within.
“How do I manage, the shuteye?
Take these,” John in a rare mood,
the finest, willing to share
his precious little helpers.
Clearing the mind and sliding into
the obsessive-compulsive workshop,
the Awardees Meeting in Daegu,
a web of wonders rising from data,
how bats deal with mirror surfaces,
the neuroethology of echo-acoustic distortions,
knowledge misty
but not receding,
seeing all this doubt from a seat in the back
of the slow-wave room,
restorative,
a potential new role in translation
for the mitochondrial transcription
termination factor 3.
The path comes down along a certain consensus,
slips behind egos and different interpretations,
reappears in a better technique,
a more powerful imaging,
no religion around, just tidy thoughts
and unchecked assumptions, gateways,
rest theories, hypothesized
unbounded answer space.
A flexible system, “Your life sciences,”
Cage snorts, several degrees
grumpier in the afternoon.
“You mean, as a verb? A neologism?
To denote the chaos of movement?
My life rocks, my life
scampers away, it twists and
turns and sciences?”
Things are getting out of control all right
inside the Austrian composer’s skull,
the onset of an episode
now virtually inescapable.
Cage nods,
“Partying like it’s 1999.”
nothing, the next,
abruptly
land and the dream life of projects, figures,
some kind of treasure mountain.
Schubert, still sweating, hears the music already,
the giant seaport, its tankers,
cranes and skyscrapers, kicks Cage,
“Time to get up, Mr. Zen Master.”
The little ferry from Fukuoka moors,
finds the quick bus and fluid connection,
another city, another hotel,
sleeping it off and
on to the convention center,
the human frontier, the science program.
“How do you manage that?”
Franz’s temples being battered
from within.
“How do I manage, the shuteye?
Take these,” John in a rare mood,
the finest, willing to share
his precious little helpers.
Clearing the mind and sliding into
the obsessive-compulsive workshop,
the Awardees Meeting in Daegu,
a web of wonders rising from data,
how bats deal with mirror surfaces,
the neuroethology of echo-acoustic distortions,
knowledge misty
but not receding,
seeing all this doubt from a seat in the back
of the slow-wave room,
restorative,
a potential new role in translation
for the mitochondrial transcription
termination factor 3.
The path comes down along a certain consensus,
slips behind egos and different interpretations,
reappears in a better technique,
a more powerful imaging,
no religion around, just tidy thoughts
and unchecked assumptions, gateways,
rest theories, hypothesized
unbounded answer space.
A flexible system, “Your life sciences,”
Cage snorts, several degrees
grumpier in the afternoon.
“You mean, as a verb? A neologism?
To denote the chaos of movement?
My life rocks, my life
scampers away, it twists and
turns and sciences?”
Things are getting out of control all right
inside the Austrian composer’s skull,
the onset of an episode
now virtually inescapable.
Cage nods,
“Partying like it’s 1999.”