Classic Poem

Tell me then about ecstasy. What
is the structure of it? Why
must it be so rare? — Why
dealt out with such parsimony and —
whether for dogs, spiders,
salmon or men — tethered
somehow to immolation and death?
Could there be bodies — perfect
crystals, or comets, or stars —
whose very being, whose consciousness-
of-self is ecstatic and too
far beyond all laws of po-
larity ever to grudge us
our quaint complexities our
palettes of yes / no / maybe ?

It stands to reason. There are gold-
mines and pearl-fisheries. So
must ecstasy have its lodes.
Even in Philadelphia, people
have seen it, felt it . . . . Some
intend it be synthesized,
like mastery at chess. Of course
that could take decades, seeing
we lack objective cri -
teria by which to affirm
an ecstasy exists. (Some scream,
some prophesy, some neither.)

However, let us say certain
measurable changes in the brain
are reduced to zeros and ones
and these programmed upon micro-
electronic impulses and played-
back to produce orgasm or
afflatus-of-spirit: Then
would all be well thereafter? —
Dan Quayle write the Book of Job /
Ms. Paglia have sex with a MOUSE?

O Brave New World / O Old
Parsimonious Globe! Not one
(blue) Light-Emitting-Diode left —
for doubt, that is, or remorse?