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The Resonance

                                             Let hundreds like me perish, but let the truth prevail.
                                                                                           —M. K. Gandhi

All that separates humans from the world
is the distance required to describe it, the effort
to articulate the relevance, the resonance,
of cause created from accident.

Have we abused the power of naming?
Have we used it for more than taming the world,
for more than confirming our biases?

Alienated even from our congruences,
most of us keep modeling from error,
unconvinced that truth would be of much use,
declining to decipher the world, accepting its facile lies—

and yet manage to live, and yet manage to live with ourselves,
without knowing, without needing to know,
one thing as good as another, so long as it serves desire.

Some are satisfied with sensation—pattern recognition, contextualization,
and manipulation, the acquisition of connotation (a distillation of desperation)
aligned for opposition, the frustration of incompletion—
others require selection,

but seemingly reasonable expression so often
breaks down upon examination: what can you trust
when nothing will verify, nothing will validate?

Though experience may be acute, analysis is gradual,
synthesis continues long past the point where one desires clarity.
When everything becomes the same, you begin to love
the parts that remain differentiated.

A world unresponsive and idle in its chaotic routines—
complexity concealed as randomness,
randomness revealed as complexity—

generates awareness of what is missing in the generic,
in the predictability of the surreal, the compensations of calamity:
the enticing profundity, the exciting release from the mundane promised,
occasionally provided, by the bizarre, the standout.

The forces are aligning...no, the forces never align,
they only coincide, different individuals doing the same thing
for different reasons, most unreasonably,

yet every iteration makes a different impression.
If everything is adaptation to change,
explorers discovering the parameters of the perimeter,
what is change?

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.