Gene Moutoux's Poetry


Do we humans not choose eclectically,

in an egregiously fickle manner

and with only desultory effort,

among the myriad of intellectual responses that life affords us,

and seek to become certain of,

even enamored of,

our choices?


Are we prepared to eschew the comfort of certainly,

to deprecate facile explanations,

to acknowledge mankind's generic uncertainty?

Conscious doubt: harbinger of wisdom,

prelude to compassion,

elucidator of existential Angst

born of unconscious uncertainty.

Could it be . . . that time is circular and infinite, so that everything that exists and everything that happens will exist and happen again in exactly the same way infinitely?

Could it be . . . that God is so utterly different that the word "existence" does not apply to him (her, it), which means that our every attempt to say something meaningful about God is utterly futile, including this sentence?

Could it be . . . that the universe we know is but a cell in a larger universe, and that that universe is a cell in a still larger universe, and so on infinitely?

Could it be . . . that each atom of our universe has a universe within it, and each atom in that universe has its own universe within it, and so on infinitely?

Could it be . . . that my existence is a dream; or that I alone exist, and everything else is an imaginary product of my mind, including other minds?

Could it be?

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