20151225 (mathematics)

Why would I talk about 

Mathematics on Christmas?

Perhaps because my thoughts

On Christmas haven’t gelled

Even vaguely. Though I have

Hints, I’d rather save them

For now satisfied with the 

Mystery. Now on math we’ll

Start with what you know:

There are no numbers. Oh, 

You think so, show me a three.

Or if that’s not easy enough,

Show me a five. Don’t go 

Pulling cards from a deck. 

There’s no such thing as a 

Deck (not even that ten thousand

Dollar thing you paid to have

Built on the back of your

House) unless they’re wrapped

In cellophane or whatever

Impenetrable clear substance

They use nowadays. See

Decks aren’t things, don’t 

Grow up, mate, have baby 

Decks, like rabbits, who

Have beginnings and endings.

The best we can say about

Decks is they’re an aggregate,

A collection of things, joined

By touching or other proximity

Like a chain of islands. So 

While there may be no three

Out perambulating with her

Three young threes, there 

Can be three dogs, or three

Aggregates—like three nails,

Aggregates of iron molecules

And carbon molecules. We can

Thank our fingers and toes for

The decimal system. So,

Grasshopper, what have you

Learned?  That numbers are

But relations among things

We lump together in patterns.

None of the numbers are out

There in the universe even 

Though the relations of relations

We infer from the behavior

Of things seem to govern

What happens. Was that too

Fast for you? It was for me

For many years. But I can

See why. Powerful concepts

Are powerful because they

Can so easily confuse us

With their extent. Many wondered

Before you and me—Euclid,

Pythagoras, others too numerous

(Could be a pun) to name and

Beside them a cloud of

Con artist numerologists

Famous for taking the slightest

Coincidences and drilling

Through them to fly-by-night

Mysteries to separate you 

And me from our yen,

Drachmas, pesos, rubles, or

Dollars. But remember it’s

All in our heads, like the

Sides of an imaginary triangle

Which may or may not have

One hundred and eighty degrees

As you please.

c. J.S.Manista, 2015

20151224 (Kri$mu$)

Santa, your days are numbered

Let’s dispense with Christmas—

Not the Christmas of the liturgical 

Year. No, the commercial extravaganza

Celebrated of hucksters, merchants

From early September to December 25,

When the last basketball has been 

Tossed for the night, then poof! Nada!

Bubkes! except for national depression

Setting in from the overload, the

Exhaustion until we can get drunk

On New Year’s eve. Christmas sales,

Returns, regifting. We all hate it—

Nothing but an artificial expense

On our spirits and pocketbooks. 

So let’s get rid of the travesty 

For 2016. Deep-six it to the

Trashbin of tomfoolery. Scholars 

Tell us it’s only one hundred and

Fifty years old, coincident with

The industrial revolution, thus 

The adoption of gift-giving,

All those new products made

Better, so more cheaply than

What we made ourselves.

Originally the feast was cause 

For celebration—eating lavishly

If one could afford with family, friends, 

Singing, rejoicing—the glorious twelve

Days born with exuberance and

Brought to a decent, timely close.

A time of visits and charitable

Works. It’s time we stopped being

Timid establishment Christians.

Let’s reclaim this holy season from

The profit-driven. Let them keep

Santa, Rudolph, reindeer, bells, 

Candles, jingling. Let them call it

Kri$mu$ but not violate our patent. 

We’ll restore Advent to a solemn

Time of preparation, purification,

Waiting, and not buy a thing. I’m 

Not out to terrify merchants so much 

As put an end to their terrifying us 

With a paroxysm of procurement.

We can buy gifts for our youngsters, 

Family, friends, whenever but no longer 

Synched to the holy day. Imagine,

How more efficiently they could 

Schedule production, more evenly,

Running ads periodically throughout

The year instead of batching for an

Excess of promotion. A calmer

Time. And, at last we would let

The culture know Christmas  is 

The second most sacred of Christian 

Feasts, yielding to Easter week, 

When the work of redemption is 

Suffered, our salvation accomplished.

c. J.S.Manista, 2015

20151223 (origins)

How can we see other mammals

And not think them our brothers?

One needn’t look as close as

Primates to note the plan of our

Framing—bones of our hands, 

Their paws, bend of their legs,

Our elbows, their knees,

Locked into consonance across

Millenia, over eras our spines

Oriented since seafloor-crawling

Flatworms formed our fronts,

Our backs, our heads, and

Our tails—all replayed as we 

Reform in our mother’s womb.

When we stare into the tiger’s

Face and cry, “What immortal

Hand or eye dare frame thy

Fearful symmetry,” are we

Aware Brother Tyger may be

Wondering the same about us? 

But, for all this fellow feeling

I declare for warm blooded, 

Fur-covered beasts, I’m in no rush

To gather my family lizards, snakes,

Invertebrates. Notwithstanding

Charlotte’s charm, I can’t curl 

Up with an arachnid, nor Fafnir,

William Morris’s worm. One

Admires lepidoptera from afar

Through the lens of the microscope

Where you cannot hear the tiny

Clacking of their body plates,

Racket lovable only to another 

Of their kind. I can identify with

Mollusks’ fondness for privacy, its

Love of the seashore; but few indeed

Are parties for clams; they never

See sky. Probably, like corals, they

Don’t miss it nor wonder why.

You see we’re traveling down

The chain to the single-celled

Creatures, brave indeed, who paired

Up to start the animals’ dance. Did

A handsome amoeba saunter over

To a particularly comely one and 

Offer, “We could make beautiful

Music together”? Let’s go even 

Further to witless grains of sand

Whose minerals will constitute

Sharks’ teeth one day. But why 

Stop there, when the atoms of

Carbon, iron can be traced to exploding

Stars giving us all our stiffness?

Was it not written that God could

Raise up sons to Abraham from

The stones of the earth? How apt,

Looking back, how positively

Grounded. Even atheists contend

We are but star-stuff. The family

Of us claims a lineage direct

To the foundation of all. Looking

For grace? Look all around you!

c. J.S.Manista, 2015

20151222 (pain)

Palestinian child injured in Gaza bombing

I’ve had a few times in my life

To think seriously about pain.

For the most part I don’t like it.

That’s the general consensus.

But give the devil his due there’s

Nothing like it to make you aware

Your hand’s been on a hot stove 

Or the fall broke your upper arm

When what you intended was to

Use your arm to break your fall.

Another case of “whether the stone

Hits the pitcher, or the pitcher hits

The stone, it’s bad news for the

Pitcher.” I fell off a ladder onto

The corner of a table for laying

Out sewing patterns. Hit it with

My middle spine. Slipped on

Some ice near the corner of 

My house last winter. Knocked

The breath out of me but I ended

Up lying in the snow for about

Half an hour for the pain to stop.

There were others worthy of

Mention but the point’s been made:

Were we not to feel pain we’d

Be very short lived as individuals,

Species, killing ourselves without 

Meaning to—we’d be absolutely

Careless, walk too close to

Propellers, falling boulders, the

Like before we could ever spawn,

Pass on those worthless genes to

Another generation doomed to

Die before procreating. So that

Is that. We’d have to feel pain

Which would get worse the greater

The damage. That’s the “good” side

Of pain—short and sweet—like

The Red Cross nurse would tell

Me “You’ll feel a little pinch.”

It would sting but I’d not cry out.

I couldn’t tell what or how much

Pain my father suffered from his 

Colon cancer. My mom died of

Three rapid-fire strokes I don’t

Know if what she felt was at all

Painful. But I could sense her 

Frustration with her inability to

Find words. Then there’s the 

Pain of torture. I could cite

Torquemada, the SS, numerous

Others but since our own CIA 

Specialists in torture who taught 

Central American police how to 

Extract confessions in El Salvador

In Iraq, Afghanistan, Black sites,

Are of such recent memory and

Still in practice at Guantanamo,

Let’s just use them. Uncle Vito 

May break your fingers but that’s

Business—you missed a payment.

Political torture is after your soul.

If you die, they’ll leave your body 

In the street, an example for the 

Next guy who wants social justice. 

Unthinking we take God to task 

For making us feel pain. What 

Began as a tool to keep us intact 

Led to all this disfigurement,

Political pain. Did God crawl up

On the cross to say to us, “I’m 

Sorry for pain, but there was no 

Other way.”

c. J.S.Manista, 2015