You're All Wrong

 

You’re all wrong.
Every damn one of you.
How do I know? I’m wrong too.
I’m better at being wrong than you are.
I’ve been wrong since the Big Bang.
Even that is wrong; there was no beginning.
We are ever-evolving mistakes
in the boundless green microbial slime
of Beauty. When you add and subtract
all the Buddha’s good deeds and blunders
over thousands of Bodhisattva lives,
the sum is neither greater nor less than one.
No tripping, no dance.
We eternally miscalculate ourselves:
that's how we survive.
Any slip-up might be the serendipitous
mutation that ensures our immortality.
O necessary sin of Adam!
How could we marvel at a butterfly
without the grisly mishap in the cocoon?
Could we enjoy our popcorn were it not
for the grace of the hunchbacked caveman
with a fistful of kernels by the fire
who bungled over his own enormous feet?
Stumbling is sacred, better than a tarantella!
Where would you be without your mother’s
carelessness concerning the moon?
O sing, O praise propitious indiscretion!
Or would you prefer the impeccable
symmetry of Zero, the fat frozen mouth
of a silent God yearning to say ‘O!’
through the dense white hole where
no Word escapes? As for me,
I lie awake in the dark, surrounded
by snoring animals. I’m always wrong.
The people you need to watch out for
are the ones who are right.


Originally published in 'Braided Way' journal.