What if they are right
to count everything but
we’re counting the wrong things?
What if it’s not pulses systolic calories -
what if it’s rainbows?
What if we each only get 27 rainbows?
Or thirty millipede crossings,
or 79 keenings or 9 fruit falling on heads
or 23 frisbee misses?
Are we living in a calculator?
Or it more of praise that the wheels and spheres
churning in galactic bliss
blow round on? 32,758 smiles,
4,569 one eyebrow rising while the other doesn’t.
789 spok hands perfectly split?
Any of these critical thresholds might
involute us into black holes of metabeing,
emitting life so much
it’s like we’re sucking it all in,
we’ve skipped planes of existence.
Don’t trouble on death from this air-sucking sprint,
a momentary blip, bringing grins.
Really we’re dice tumbling in the
yahtzee cup of life, ripening towards our
A portal way to