The Moment that Culture Discovered Itself

The truth is a pretty, tame equation.
Fitness times the change in a trait
Equals a Russian doll of covariance
Nested within covariance, never
Reaching the end that began it.
No? You don't think so? Ok, tell me.
Go for it. Show me your big bad recipe
For saving the rest of us fools,
Saving the planet from itself
Stopping the sun before it explodes,
Putting a god you like, the one god,
Your god in charge of black holes.
Now explain how this all turns out
In favor of your own devout behavior.
I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm whining
About: the little, covarying dolls are turtles,
The little turtles go on down forever
Or until whatever clean, short, sayable
Concept like god or dharma or bang,
Like zero or pi or the beginning of life
We can concoct to say to ourselves, stop, stop, stop,
Whatever knotted symbol we carve on the rocks
And let stand for the mystery at the bottom
Of the well that is deeper than the great chain
Of being, not being, conceiving and forgetting
That we let down into the dark, whatever bucket of rhyme
Serving as imaginary container for the truth that climbs
Out of any such rickety bucket, green-eyed, hungry, time
Come to eat the closure we hoped would rescue
Our compulsive human brain from this algorithm,
The loop we can't ever control once started. Oh god. The end.
Good. Beautiful. Terror. Thank you. Let's worship.