Earlier on

he stole the answers,

crept down in the cellar

and fucked the furnace.

On the exam to end all exams

he did as well as one might have expected:

ate all the cream off the top

of the biscuits. People would laugh

at him, though behind his back. His was the smugness

we speak about in retrospect,

the way we analyze our Presidents.

He’d sit in his room,

as quiet as Churches,

listening to the pitter-patter and the scurrying,

and all by himself

he would rearrange the universe.

He would take the flatness

and make it curvesome, scatter pepper

as if a sneeze were the answer,

eat bits of bagel with cheeses

putting galaxies where only singularities had existed previously.

In his dreams, which, perforce, went back

to the very beginning,

he was the cynosure, the big honcho,

in a universe which was not, like ours, a hiccup,

and if psychopathology could be explainable,

this was the actualization of every

repressive instinct since Adam

and Africanized bees spread north, like winds of the sirocco

from where the Garden of Hesperides

dropped apples,

and is remembered for its dragons,

and for the AIDs-like virus that done-in Hercules

and all the other heroic schmucks

who thought they had a theory.


“It won’t be long before we have a theory of everything.”