On the supersmart mathematical believer fallacy

They tell me that their numbers crunch suggests
my non-beliefs do not pass all their tests

Wait – I am not some cretin to believe
in bronze age bullshit [dogma doth deceive] –
but god if he exists’s no slave to digit.
Mathematical obsessions make me fidgit!

They say what they can measure was designed
with arbitrary measurements in mind!
Such “logic” isn’t worthy of pre-schoolers.
You mean one can’t create without their rulers?

As if zen masters don’t draw perfect rounds!
These math guys think all else is out of bounds!
I know their maths did get us to the moon
but maths are. . . too much with us late and soon.

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{There are actually very very clever  guys who say if it can’t be reduced to mathematics it isn’t science. (I won’t give the main jerk who says this the honour of being named here.)  These are men who, by my lights,  misuse their considerable intellectual gifts in rhetoric that simply backs up their rightwing agendas. (If that sounds like William F. Buckley – he used to buy them all drinks!) These creeps would make themselves popes in their new “scientific” hegemony.  Down with the gods of the idiots and up with the gods of the ivy-league educated elite!  Frankly  I’d rather listen to some sweet deluded hick preacher!]

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My Jesus of the Seasons

(composed in a church in Montreal)

O My Jesus of the Seasons.
It is effin’ freezing outside
and I am in the pews (again)
impenitent as usual

And here you are…

pretty much chartreuse, I’d say
the in shade for cadavers.
So right with the vermillion robe
So…. nonchalant,
drooping on that lilac-grey cross
held aloft by a hollow-eyed deity
with the Reichstag eagle
tatooed on his chest
(some Hitler Youth take
on the dove, no doubt.)

Mister no-eyes has a nimbus
you have a nimbus
(All God’s chillun’ got nimbus)
and there’s Al and Omega –
red, yellow and cryptic
played out against a cubist’s blue galaxy –
And there’s that cross-P thing
I seem to understand intuitively
because my grandfather’s name was Patrick.

And there you are
the colour of a chic cocktail,
lids lowered, but not a wrinkle on your brow.
Ecstatic Introversion – then suddenly

HERE YOU ARE !

(it is a very good window)
and I find myself muttering
“That’s Life”
saying it to you, my Jesus of the Seasons
assuming innocently that you can hear.

Dying and being born
and dying
is what we all do –
with admittedly less panache, I’d say…
although I can think of a few
who could have made Variety
with a decent publicist –
or is that an oxymoron ?

I call myself a Taoist
(when lost or misplaced)
And I’d probably make
a halfway-decent physicist…
but for the time
and for the being
I’m just examining things.

Hinduism is lousy with carcasses
and even Buddhism needs at least four postures
to get the message across.

But you – you petulant Jew –
you’re so succinct.
Pity all your linear-minded fans don’t get it.
How juvenile the creeds we lug around
like crib toys
inexplicably reassuring – or is it just pacifying –
over and beyond the warmth of familiarity.

But you, my bent-kneed chartreuse wonder,
sinking (before my very eyes)
like a seed into late autumn’s earth
to rise triumphant in a couple of months.
You, who saw plainly, that you were
One With The Ground Of Being…

Oh, my Jesus of the Seasons
(To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him)
Or as Pogo might have said:
We have met The Divinity
…and he is us

Coming and going
coming and going
not surprising we never know
since, like you, we are both.

Without your portable telephone pole
you might be a letter unto yourself –
something between a Y and a Z…
some undiscoverd Greek cypher.

It is perhaps unfortunate that this window
(in this here church)
is shaped like a bullet –
or was that gothic stuff
better prophesy than it ever imagined ?

Still, the little niches on either side of the main attraction
do have a quaint tee-pee mode to them:
sweet, if minimal, retribution
for the land and culture the Jesuits raped.
(do they know about “innocent rape,” in Canada ?)

But don’t get me wrong, my beautiful man,
with your burnt umber locks and your punk jewellery,
I will never hold you responsible for all of that

…or the Crusades or the Inquisitions
any more than I held George Washington responsible
for George Wallace,
(and yes, even if the one with the wooden teeth did keep slaves)

Nor is Marx
responsible for Stalin
(What’s after, is after)

O no, my Jesus of the Seasons
I have little quibble with you – as a person –
and, well, as a symbol of Truth
especially here, where the flex of your abdominal muscles
really does suggest a woman’s ass…

No, as a symbol of Truth
you’re as rich as any I ever encountered.

Bending under summer heat,
dying to be born
still and sombre as the snows
(we are, after all
in Montreal)
and always
always back each spring
like a bad penny.

Hail to thee, my Jesus of the Seasons
with your flecks of sunlight
and your cool star clusters –
your Yiddish inflection
draws from me a smile I cannot hide
as if there weren’t any difference
between a sacrifice and a shrug
as if you, the great – the greatest – rabbi
were just sighing, azoy gait es…
“That’s Life”

Something sort of deluvian

I want it to rain
I want it to rain so bad
a rain so hard it pockmarks the sidewalk.
I want an army of leadbellied clouds
to come down mean,
mean enough to obliterate the pavement –
make it impossible to see –
a rain as implacable as reverberating sunlight
a rain to sound
like bullets bouncing off busses –
hard and mean and fast –
a rape of rain
to scourge the world,
a punishment of rain
… and when it ends
I want the Latter Day Forgivers
to appear – like potbellied Disney robins
chirping through the crowds
preaching nothing
demanding nothing more than
have you anything
that needs forgiving ?

smiling as they listen
to everybody’s short list
before they kiss you
on the forehead and say
Done!

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https://countercatechism.wordpress.com/2017/05/08/the-ldf-in-action

Prayer for a new Solidarnosc

Pharoahs, kings and monarchs
have always enslaved
and oppressed –
it is their stock in trade
and the refrain has been played
ever since man began to sow grain

That admirable roman senator
with his plums and his toga
was slum-landlord
to the pleb

Although the word means
rule by the people
more than half the population
was excluded from the much-tauted
Athenian democracy

The Lords of Europe
held serfs in bondage
and hanged anyone who
took a twig from the woods
they claimed were private property

As my grandpa used to say
baron…meaning
one step higher than a horse thief

The so-called princes of The Church
behaved no better – indeed worse,
since they made pretense
of empathy and altruism.

Even where some slight
slight progress was made,
the bourgeois guildmasters
were indeed still masters
of the journeymen.Wherever there is
the pyramid of heirarchy
there is bound to be
corruption

The plutocrat exploiting
the growing numbers of disenfranchised
is merely the twentieth century
version of a timeless refrain…
Sweet Jesus, the poor
are indeed still with us
for they have no leisure to observe
that the corporate fascist’s growing wealth
is simply the syphoning process
by which their own poverty
is aggravated.
This theft is carried out
surreptiously or
in the name of honour
or bravery – or blessèd virtues
that are nowhere to be found.

Elections are the illusion of choice
played out like circuses –
periodic and programmed distractions.

Religions too make hollow promises
to the uneducated, the downtrodden.
They are indeed soporifics – legal opiate –
snake oil sold to the credulous and fearful.

There has never been
a true democracy on this earth.
Power has never been
voluntarily ceded –
neither to women nor taxpayers,
neither labourers nor brown peoples.

Whether held by force
or by persuasive deception
only the enslaver
has ever retained power.

It is now time
for power to be not taken
but simply realized.

Cognitive Bias II

If I had believed those marks
in the mud were produced
by chaos – you know –
chance and random
winds or something…
well, I’d be a dead duck ! –
I mean truly out of luck –
for a carnivore was tracking
yours truly and I was right
to attribute to some agent
what turned out to be prints
of the hungry critter’s paws

I would not have lived
to tell the tale, snapped
in his jaws – or have children
and grandchildren
and great grandchildren
if I did not always look
for agents behind
what I see…

…but that was in a zillion BC

Today, deeply embedded
cravings for agency
are about as useful
as the vestigial appendix –
indeed more dangerous
as they are luring humanity
ever-closer to the brink
of extinction.

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You can’t convince a believer of anything; for their belief is not based on evidence, it’s based on a deep seated need to believe. — Carl Sagan

I wrote, recently, that the limit of intelligent argument was that it could only persuade an intelligent audience. Flip, perhaps, but not meant to be just clever a word I hate, btw. I mention this to explain the title of this  second (but I hope not last) in a series of allegoric pieces that will at very least lay groundwork for easing the deluded out of their delusions. What were once useful cognitive processes in human evolution are showing themselves in recent decades (if not centuries!) to be more than mildly deleterious to human advancement.  If Sagan was absolutely right…we are in deep shit unless we can somehow break through the barrier of irrationality.

…am I suggesting those who reject the findings of serious science because they still feel the need for agency are backward? Yes, I am. 

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money doesn’t talk, it swears

when money becomes the sole value
education becomes indoctrination
not a search for truth –
a cramming in
not a leading out*

those with material returns in mind
will always pander
to what public fear
and backwardness demand
. . .for only profit counts

perhaps crime doesn’t pay
but the people’s ignorance
is – at present –
a very sound investment

* e-duco – that is, to lead out.
(title borrowed from troubadour Bob Dylan)

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Oxbridge

learning about things
[really learning
about real things]
how the animal is
before agendas
reshape him –
what is truly known
about where we came from
how we’ve grown…
even, what makes a poem
a poem

when horsethievery
acquires the patina
of old money,
one in every hundred or so
of those with privilege
acquires a taste
for the truly finer things
in life…such as genuine
knowledge.

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PS. I do NOT mean to suggest that the ivy leagues and the ivory towers are always the guardians of true knowledge (they lie regularly, are as deceitful and self-serving as other institutions) merely that leisure is an enabler when it comes to seeking truth.

Cognitive Bias I

Icy wind and near-blue snow
gone as far as that ship could go
when a swabbie fell out…

Hours left to walk about
trying to stay warm
enough to survive…

circling around
                  and around…

At last the shivering lad was found
and he was blanketed and grogged
massaged and mildly drugged…

But since that day
he cannot be debunked !
Sleeps in his longjohns
although we are now
nearing the equator
he pleads and wimpers maybe later
refuses to believe
he will ever be warm again
even though the ship’s
thermometer might read 110!

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You can’t convince a believer of anything; for their belief is not based on evidence, it’s based on a deep seated need to believe. — Carl Sagan
I wrote, awhile back, that the limit of intelligent argument was that it could only persuade an intelligent audience. Flip, perhaps, but not meant to be just clever – a word I hate, btw. I mention this to explain the title – one of a series of allegoric pieces I hope – that will at very least lay groundwork for easing the deluded out of their delusions. What were once useful cognitive processes in human evolution are showing themselves in recent decades (if not centuries!) to be more than mildly deleterious to human advancement.  If Sagan was absolutely right…we are in deep shit unless we can somehow break through the barrier of irrationality.

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To come to an understanding

What went wrong? Happens every day: combination punch of church and school, family and foxie news knocks the moxie out of a tot until…he implodes (as a rule) and the inborn humanism can be replaced by consummerism… and the formatted robot is then free to die for bits of coloured cloth and pie in the sky. Please try to understand this, my friend, so that we might get to Eden in the end.

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