To Infinity–& Beyond

by Glenn Buttkus


“If you look, might you discover that our entire universe is
but a part of one atom on a blade of grass?”–Stephen King.
Most of us
have seen the lemniscate symbol,
                  created in the 17th Century,
the number 8 lying            on its side
                  representing infinity.
As curious simians, we are cursed
                                      or blessed
with countless questions, literally driven
to find answers that do not
           generate closure or actual knowledge.

 

                   If it is fact
that our spiritual essence is eternal, then
                   how does infinity weigh into
                   the cosmological metaphysical equation?
Jesus, all the brainy mathematician types
create complex formulas
                   utilizing two basic types of infinite numbers;
                   those that are countless & innumerable, &
                   those that are truly endless & limitless.
I favor the notion
that curves,
fractal of otherwise, compose
                  all the universes & dimensions
we stand square in the middle of,
                  or on the fragmented edge of–
                           that the flat topology enthusiasts,
like the flat-earth believers of the past, are just not
imaginative enough, that
our Universe, perhaps
                       but a microscopic blemish
                                             on the buttocks of infinite
                                             universes,
is curved,
like the earth–that a thought,
                              a laser beam of light,
                              an astral projection traveling
on a straight line journey will
ultimately return
to its original starting point,
eating its own tail, becoming
           part of the great wheel,
perpetually in motion.
I mean, if the universe(s)
& our little lives
are comprised of infinite possibilities–
then should we waste time
trying to grasp the nature of it,          or just keep on moving
                                         until our feet turn to clay,
our cortex is rendered down to a gleaming cubicle of salt,
our fragile armor of flesh rots
                                         and returns to the earth mother,
                 or turns to gray ash on a pyre?
The young woman in the blue dress
has her own perspective on all this as she suddenly
                 can see through solid stone walls,
                 can see flights of angels,
& intricate patterns of every hue of light,
                 conquering fear, glimpsing a portion of understanding
as to her peculiar placement within her particular lifetime;
and like a princess pig well trained
                to sniff out heavenly truffles, she is
                            certain that Truth lurks just below the surface,
even though she is prevented from unearthing it–
& she is now equally certain that it is philosophical madness
to entertain the notion
                that a million monkeys banging
                on a million typewriters eventually
would reproduce the Holy Bible, the Koran,
                         or the complete works of Shakespeare,
for she is witness to a billion monkeys banging on
                                 a billion keyboards, & whatever
is emerging
is only part
of an infinite process.
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