At a time towards the end

but not nearly the end

of the last century

In the way life time is measured

two still excitable

but not quite young men

sat in the bright but dusty Ear Inn

known for its beats and poetry,

It was a  Stairway to Heaven certainly,

that filled in between raucous chorus

at the moment my crayons drew

the new altar

and the new god

and, yes,

the scene filled with

acolytes and priests,

such as you and I,

in bright primary colors

and waxy black.

 

While you could believe,

all I perceived,

was religiosity       

not mathematical certainty.

Not willing to fall upon my dagger

but doomed to be defrocked

for failure to recite the mantra.

I suspected mathematics

deals in great generalities

not in precisions and facts

And if the universe

is not meta-physical?

Then the physical has no constant

simply predictive equality

nothing proven Absolutely,

as needs be,

neither you nor I,

not dull colors or white,

not even purest black