(Fuck) Teleology

And those who say every damn day,
Because they are enamored of why,
“I am not content to look at you
And sometimes, perhaps, even listen.”

Just because we hammer with why
The world is not required to love us,
Nor even to pretend to listen
To the thud of blood in our veins.

The world is not required to love us.
There is nothing intrinsic hidden
In the brackish flow of our veins.
I’ll tell you this secret for free:

There is nothing intrinsic hidden
In anyone in the world any day.
Sit on concrete, or under trees;
Be content to look at the sea.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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