Ravenna, a poem by David Garyan
Ravenna I
In the beginning,
time destroys cities,
but death heals them again.
Like ruins of great empires,
only decay can give birth
to history—
only roots of ancient rocks
can speak the language
of once-living trees.
A novice sailor
describes the ocean
like a schoolboy in love.
Schoolboys in love
recount the waves
like sailors taking their
first voyage.
Your ship has aged
but the sails remain whiter
than ever.
Your compass has not only seen
lines change on a map—
geology itself matured
in front of your eyes.
Long ago you did
rest on the very precipice of the sea;
all of Rome was once at your feet,
but the ages have taken
all that away;
every sundial and clock,
every other human invention
of time has left you—
like fresh sailors
who’ve forgotten ports
that no longer bear riches.
You were thrown
into the arms of the past,
like a beautiful widow
who never remarried;
still, you never grieved for the future—
only the death of antiquity
made you grave.
Now the seekers of power
and wealth have let
their lust for you
die at last—
freedom, what freedom.
Looking at you,
only the best artists now
realize you were among
the most beautiful once.
Already, the silence is quiet
enough at midnight;
the chill of September air
is fertile enough for poets to grow.
You didn’t remarry
because you had no admirers—
every poet knows that’s a lie.
You could’ve borne
the fame of Venice;
you could’ve guarded
the wisdom of Rome;
you could’ve studied
in Bologna and been reborn
in Florence,
but you let no one
seduce you again,
except what passes us all.
You’re not the highest
mountain by any stretch—
simply the tallest
unclimbed peak,
until no such places exist.
Your streets are gardens
where only poets
can recognize
the plants.
Your alleys don’t follow
an architect’s precision—
the impressionist’s brushstrokes
lead them instead.
Your people don’t walk
with the honor of kings,
always raising their heads;
they glance slowly around
like philosophers,
yet still move with a purpose.
I want to fall
in love with you,
but I can’t—
you’re too old for me.
Maybe you don’t know,
but I’ve become a young monk
in an ancient monastery.
I feel the peace of dead forests,
of murdered trees cut down
at the height of youth—
only the knowledge
that I’ll become
a fleet of ships in the end
gives me some peace.
No, I won’t go to the fire.
I won’t become
the fuel of civilization.
My sins won’t keep me
from putting white sails
on my ships.
My virtue is a shipwreck
where everyone dies,
but the sunken treasure
is quickly recovered.
My vices are all things
which float on water,
so I curse the depth
and clarity of this world.
I still haven’t
entered Dante’s tomb—
certainly I'm worthy,
but I also fear my past.
My ego has burned
old books
just to collect the ashes
in bottles and throw them
into the ocean.
My foresighted vision
assured me I could throw
salt on the deep
wounds of the sea.
My pen is only the depth
in which squids are extinct.
Like vanity living
in a room full
of carnival mirrors,
I’ve written lines to call
myself a poet and I’ve
called myself a poet
just to impress people.
I’ve come here to cease
being a poet.
My heart is the English language
written from right to left.
My language is the last heartbeat
of a criminal on the run.
Ravenna, I wouldn’t want
to fall in love with you,
even if you were young enough.
I’ve become a hurricane
that only has barren fields
left to ravage.
I’ve become an ocean
that no longer thirsts
for young sailors’ lives.
I’m the sweetest forbidden fruit
trying to tempt the dead.
The grey face
of your history
has given me peace.
By looking at the wrinkles
around your eyes,
I’ve ceased searching
for the poet’s fountain
of old age and experience.
I finally understand what
it’s like to love something
without being in love with it.
Everything I write
has no meaning
and makes sense
at the same time—
it feels like life
has no purpose,
but you still choose
to rise in the morning
and watch yourself
go round the sun
once again.
Sometimes, past midnight,
I visit Piazza del Popolo
just to sit on a bench.
Like an adult who doesn’t
know what he wants,
I tell myself that I wish
to see no one,
to be alone,
to refuse the drunk
consolation of friends,
but that’s precisely when
I’m not telling the truth—
the urge to see someone
is strongest right then.
Time is also taking my youth,
but unlike you I remain a naïve sailor.
My eyes are tired feet
sick of new places.
My feet are vigilant eyes
trying to avoid familiar faces.
Still, I search for Dante on every
one of your streets.
My eyes are really two compasses
pointing in opposite directions.
I’ve forgotten the names
of every star and the shapes
of all constellations.
I know where the Supreme Poet is buried,
but I don’t know where he is.
Master, I’m afraid to ask
on what page of your book
I’ll end up in the end.
Hopefully I’ll end up in the end.
I don’t get why Plato
and Aristotle are in the beginning
and can’t go to heaven.
There’s no reason for nothing;
tell me this and I’ll be content.
No, again I’ve lied:
I don’t want understanding—
willpower, just willpower.
Give me the wisdom
to lose myself,
to destroy my maps,
to meet people without
wanting to know who they are,
or where they came from.
Don’t give me the silence
of the oldest libraries;
I just want their books.
Don’t give me the faith
of preachers and priests;
the silence of ancient
churches is holier.
I love the cobblestones
of Via Galla Placidia;
to me, they’re mosaics as well.
I never avoid this road
when walking to work—
the Basilica di San Vitale
appears from my favorite angle;
inside, under its mosaic sky,
lies the sarcophagus
of Isaac the Armenian.
I feel no peace
as I pass and witness
the antique exterior.
For a young man,
what’s there to behold,
except death and decay?
The naïve vision of youth
is perfect in its clarity;
the perfect vision of old age
is so rigid it can’t see
two steps ahead,
much less turn its head.
All I have left is my sight.
Why do I no longer feel
like an artist when I touch someone?
Why am I afraid to touch
everything I love?
Sight is the sugar
that makes jealousy sweet.
No longer do I want
to see like a poet;
take the words away
from my eyes
and put the world
in front of them again.
I didn’t arrive yesterday,
but your mosaics
are still strangers.
Is it because I have
nothing to covet here?
Does only greed
steal divine things
with its downcast glance?
No, I want to steal looking
straight at you, Ravenna—
I’m a thief who takes
without guilt,
but I’m also a thief who gives
without memory.
I want to see
neither prisons nor charities.
Show me helping hands
without fingerprints,
and take away
the faces of beggars.
No, the eyes of a poet
weren’t made for heaven;
they always find
good metaphors for theft,
and they see nothing wrong
with pride if it’s creative;
still, let my hands feel
only the purest of visions
and put them on paper.
I want to stop
looking at you like a poet,
to cease searching for Dante,
or Byron on every corner.
No longer do I want inspiration—
all I want is to be guided.
The world has become my hell.
Darkness and light is everywhere.
I’m a modern city
that will be forgotten by historians.
I’m an ancient empire
that no archaeologists can find.
The chains of freedom
have been placed on my ankles;
I must make decisions now
without guidance from Fate—
bear all debts and rewards
for each choice
that I’ve made;
yet, I’m not alone—
everyone’s world has become hell.
I’ve come to your streets
hoping to escape history
and forget the future.
Your wine is addictive
but gives me no sleep;
your church bells ring
like wine glasses at weddings—
where I’m in love with the brides.
I want neither sleep
when I’m alone,
nor love when I’m surrounded
by people.
I can’t bear the sight
of what I want,
but I want it all, especially
when there’s nothing to have.
Ravenna, I curse your empty streets
when I’m sober,
and I long to be alone
when your wine
has taken my hand.
Like an actor running
away from himself,
I don’t seek inspiration
walking your Street of Poets.
There’s too much life
in the verses of the dead,
too much patience
in the light of your mosaics.
To live, I must renounce
both death and tenacity.
Like mathematicians searching
for logic in love,
I’m just a fisherman approaching
the river of paradox with no bait.
I yearn to contradict myself
no more than three times.
1. I live to die.
2. If I don’t live then I die.
3. I must live by staring death in the face.
Every expression of yours
is the same and it’s different.
The way apples speak
equal tastes everywhere,
so your women and men
talk distinct languages,
but they all say the same thing.
Non voglio niente.
Non voglio niente.
Non voglio niente.
Dear English,
why don’t you understand
“I don’t want nothing?”
I want to live,
but I don’t want to live.
I want to leave,
but I don’t want to leave,
especially when it’s dark.
I walk next to your Candiano Canal,
smelling the piss and broken
beer bottles on warm winter nights;
these orange-cold visions
are the best sonnets
that don’t speak of love.
I’m so relieved
that I don’t have to love you;
I feel like an explorer
who’s tired of traveling
but also doesn’t miss home.
I’m a man who can’t
know what she wants.
I’m a woman who can’t
know what he wants.
My grammar is all too fucked up.
I’ve learned everything properly,
but without learning the rules.
I always make love
the subject of the sentence,
but I don’t know what love is.
I always make love
the subject of the sentence,
but I don’t know why that’s right.
I came here
to forget how English is thought
and to find your sentences
that don’t need a subject.
I’m tired of people,
of thinking and subjects.
I want to live in a language
where only verbs exist—
a world of pure action and motion.
I want to kill all
my philosophies and beliefs.
No! Kill all
my philosophies and beliefs.
Let me climb Mount Purgatory—
dissolve all my thoughts good and bad
with sweat and exhaustion.
Ravenna, you have many mountains,
even though you have none at all.
Like fortune tellers walking
counterclockwise when
predicting the past,
you contradict yourself
and you don’t.
I love your Torre Civica;
it can never compare
to the leaning tower in Pisa,
but it bows like an obscure actor
aware of his old age—
proud of himself
and his long years of privacy.
I’ve come
to your enotecas and trattorias
in search of obscurity and fame.
I’ve come searching for wine
that won’t get me drunk—
no matter how much I drink.
I’ve come to escape escape—
to be moral without conscience,
and embarrassed without shame,
to escape a world of revolution
where things never change.
Who will make the first
revolution against revolution?
Who will walk into the world
that’s become dialectic hell?
Who will talk to the devil himself?
Who? Who? Who?
Alas, there’s no center in hell anymore.
The only exception lies
in the purgatory of language.
Grieve or don’t grieve
for the post-modern mortal,
but something has swallowed
the center.
The center is no longer the center.
My hell is now collapsing
from all sides.
No lever is long enough
nor fulcrum right enough
to move hell away.
I fear there isn’t enough
silence in your basilicas
nor in Dante’s tomb
to guide me—
the real reason
I’ve been afraid to go in.
You’re quieter than most
of the world’s cities,
but maybe not quiet enough.
What will you do in 2021,
when the Supreme Poet
will have died for 700 years?
How many others
have left this world
255500 days ago?
I walk near the Basilica di San Francesco,
and wonder if I’m related
to humanity or time?
Time is the tormenter;
it’s an ocean tempting
only those who can’t swim;
it’s a night that stays silent
only for those who can’t sleep;
it measures but doesn’t feel;
it calculates but doesn’t reason;
it remembers but doesn’t love;
it speaks but doesn’t teach;
it has drowned many
philosophers who
could do nothing but think.
Paradise can never have time,
yet hell still invented
the instruments to measure it.
Why do we long
for 700 years of death?
I can’t wait for history
to happen anymore.
Show me your living
Dantes, Byrons, and Wildes.
No, Ravenna, I’m not related
to Chronos and neither are your people.
We’re born from humanity.
We want to live as we die—forever.
We want to feel reason and love.
We want to feel, reason, and love.
We want the freedom
to be musicians and artists
without needing to have
more talent than anyone.
We want the freedom of wrong
notes and strange proportions.
We want art without art.
We want to be our own generation—
to eat and sleep like no one else,
to argue in churches
and pray in our homes
for some peace in the world.
We want our own chaos and insanity.
We can never be Dantes,
but we’re here and we must stay.
Only two freedoms exist—
to exist or to die
and only one choice is freedom.
Why must we be born
against our will?
Why must death take life
for it to be free?
Death is not death anymore.
The contradictions of history are history.
We want to follow our own
path with a guide.
We want our own hell
and to make sense of it.
Master, how long must
I wait by the Porta Serrata,
wondering if I should go north or south?
Why are the flames of freedom
so unmoved by my cold hands?
Why don’t you come and lead me?
Surely I’m not worthy of poetry,
but is a little salvation so trying?
I’m just a beggar
who can pay for his comfort.
All I am is a lion
who has afforded his cage.
The strength
of your history can make
the years pass sooner.
Let’s celebrate 2021 now
and may early demise save us.
I don’t believe anyone
who says otherwise;
death is the life of the poet—
like snow, artists
bloom only in winter,
or they climb mountains
searching for January.
Their words are ice sculptures in hell.
Like an unwanted child,
the poet’s birth
is never unplanned—
we’re merely the smoke
from the arsonist’s fire;
we don’t claim the innocence
of unforeseen flames.
Our lives are the accidents
committed by Fate.
Why must the colors
of not only your poets,
but also those from beyond
die in order to live?
Why does poetry flourish
in forgotten cemeteries,
but not in the liveliest piazzas
and boulevards?
Under footsteps of life,
everything can grow
in the spring,
except words.
Words are a thousand beautiful women
trying to seduce an old monk;
they’re the weeds
in the garden of sight.
No one needs words
to witness the beauty of Liguria—
let alone verse that’s beautiful.
Poetry needs the hell of winter,
where only poems can spring
from the fertile snow.
I love you because
you live in perpetual December,
and it rarely snows here.
Your streets don’t have
the voice to seduce
many July travelers,
but your trees in October
have the colors to cure loneliness.
The poets of Rome and Paris
are poets looking for attention;
the poets of Ravenna and Trento
are poets looking for poetry.
How many old scribes do you have?
Don’t give me your twenty year old scribblers—
the ones who drink at MacGowan
and write because they have
to express themselves.
Where are your bards
who don’t shoot ink
into their veins?
Where are your eulogists
who can write
in the absence of death?
Where are your poets
who don’t call themselves poets?
Dante, I place poetry
in the lowest circle of hell—
still, my life will be
twice removed from reality.
I’ve traveled endlessly
to reach the doors
of the most literate cities,
but even the sweat
of crossing great distances
couldn’t kill my anxiety
to knock and announce myself.
Ravenna, I negotiated an ocean
not knowing your language,
and I came here alone.
You put no door in front of me,
so I walked in without being invited.
Hopefully I’m now out of hell.
November 2019
Ravenna II
The city that kept you
awake for two decades
is now divorced by an ocean—
like actors who leave their kids
to become famous abroad,
it’s still hard to sleep
in a colder house,
surrounded by quiet streets.
To be a foreigner is living
with a beautiful woman
who shares all her secrets
in a language you don’t know—
begin to understand her,
and she gets suspicious,
threatening to leave.
Like leaves that forget
to change colors in autumn,
the foreigner’s life exists
in the instincts of scientists
and the theories of mothers.
People who’ve been
first-generation
immigrants twice
are war heroes
in unpopular conflicts—
their letters are idioms of home,
and speak of war’s ugliness;
their service records are dialects of hate
no civilian understands.
First-generation immigrants
are soldiers who marry
wives of the enemy;
they understand soon enough
that merely learning to speak
will open culture’s headquarters,
but not the doors of its living room;
dictionaries are just quick greetings
on grey Ravenna alleys;
thesauruses are coworkers
who have nothing in common;
newspapers are graveyards
without headstones and bodies—
they bury dead
names with an alphabet
and put headlines on them.
The foreigner is an architect
who’s allowed to build houses,
but has no right to buy land;
the foreigner has many friends
who greet him without smiles
and part ways without embraces.
Like teachers who prefer
strangers in class—
like surgeons who can’t
operate on relatives,
the vendors of Ravenna keep selling
their fruits and vegetables,
sometimes with just a ciao.
Euros are always required;
only words have never
afforded anyone food,
except maybe beggars.
The way angry people
are easier to convince
than those who say nothing,
a city with too many churches
provides enough silence
to forget your own voice;
in a city with too much peace,
people quote the books
they haven’t read
and write diaries
about other people’s lives,
but never their own.
The way shipwrecked sailors
won’t reach their destination
but can still hope to survive,
foreigners must find prayers
they don’t understand
instead of asking for favors
that will never be granted.
The honeymoon of the lifelong
nomad ends when
there’s nowhere else to go,
and nothing new to see;
when journeys end,
wanderers become children
who are tired of playgrounds;
they become ghosts
who are glad to be dead.
What do travelers become
when they don’t need maps
to navigate a city anymore?
Have they stayed too long?
Have they ceased being foreign?
The new has become familiar again,
like the faces of old friends you hate,
like the memories of lovers
you wish hadn’t left,
like the smell of mother’s cooking
when you’re no longer hungry,
like the sound of routine sins
when you confess them every week,
like the touch of a spouse
when you’ve been married for fifty years.
Hell is the nicest street
you must walk to work daily.
Hell is the most beautiful woman
you can’t leave alone,
or by herself.
Hell is the best party
you must attend every day.
There’s no sense in resisting the world;
it doesn’t like chefs who cook
something you hate—
just to prove your taste wrong;
that’s philosophy’s job.
Reason is a divorced couple
that can’t be separated
because they still want
to hate each other.
Reason is a butcher who searches
for blood in a pomegranate.
Reason is an island
whose people can’t build ships.
Reason is fighting for freedom
in segregated divisions.
Reason is a drug addict
who can quit anytime,
except for right now.
No escape artists on earth
can resolve problems
they haven’t created themselves.
Perfection is the prettiest
woman in a world without mirrors—
it’s a taxi driver whose clients
have no direction in life;
it’s a banker whose friends are all poor,
an actress who must lie to her husband,
a dictator ruling the happiest country,
but Ravenna’s drivers
all want to go somewhere;
the streets are pleasant,
but they all lead to work;
the women are beautiful,
but they’re always with someone;
the actresses are bad liars
and the actors aren’t lonely enough.
The way no language can soothe
the anger of fathers—
the way no voice can hide
suspicion from mothers,
so, in Ravenna, marriages fail
like anywhere else,
and the successful ones
are never without misery.
Where do the shadows
of lonely people go
to escape the darkness
of Ravenna’s alleys?
No, they can’t run away—
the logic of every city
in the world is the same;
poor and rich streets
all lead to one end;
the levels of pollution
come from one science;
the different sorrows
all come from a single humanity;
so, too, people die in distinct ways,
but all tickets home have one price.
Biology is an autistic genius
who can’t read emotions.
Are there chemical differences
between tears of sadness and joy?
The tongue of biology says no.
Do the frequencies change
between fake laughs and real ones?
The ears of biology say no.
Yet, what are the differences
between the tears of an actor
and those of a mourner?
What’s the difference between
a manipulator’s laugh
and that of a comedian?
And if the world’s really a stage,
will there be an audience
to applaud when it ends?
Please, if someone is watching
this comedy,
have some mercy
on those who pretend—
reward those who refused
orders to kill,
and punish those who killed
when directed.
The way thieves haven’t stolen
once they regret and bring
something back,
does it matter
if we’ve forgotten the lines
we never received?
Hell is just the gift of speech
without any directions,
sight without guidance,
taste without recipes,
smell without contrasts,
touch without love.
Hell is a priest who answers
rhetorical questions of sinners.
The way death never fails
to make selfless donors
out of the greediest people,
so travelers run away
from life by accepting
the world in languages
they don’t understand.
Like doctors with identical goals
who use different medicines,
monks have the same need to escape;
they just run from life
by renouncing the world
in languages they know best.
People perceive freedom
the way courts forget
a thief’s famished body
when he’s punished for stealing.
All artists try to win
arguments against fate
by creating new
lingo for nature,
but problems translated
into your own language
are like beautiful portraits
of dying artists,
like the poetry in prayers
that will never be answered,
like today’s earthquake
that raised yesterday’s mountains,
like the wind moving ships today,
then becoming a hurricane tomorrow.
And you, Ravenna, have faith
in humanity like a divorced woman
who knows what men really want—
don’t you believe any romantics,
preachers, and travelers
coming to save you;
they carry libraries of love
with their tongues,
ideas of salvation with their hands,
and the past under their feet,
but the poet’s passion
likewise fades after
the first draft;
the preacher’s hands
are also too weak
for the world’s weight;
and the traveler’s eyes
don’t notice the holy ground
their feet are trampling.
Ravenna, you’re a Christian city,
and those who still visit you
marvel at the basilicas
that remain to this day—
mosaic gems glowing inside
the Sant’Apollinare in Classe
rival the sun’s light,
but your sinners are no closer to Christ
than people without churches,
and churches without God.
The way children become adults
after hearing too many lies,
it’s hard to recognize
which wine tastes
like Christ’s blood
and which bread
like his body.
The way adults
become philosophers
after getting the calling
to disprove God,
it’s hard to climb mountains
without the impulse to conquer them,
or the urge to leave flags on their summits.
The way birds without wings
lose hope in the wind,
so we’ve lost faith in science,
our God of gods—
creator and destroyer of all.
Astronomy, the sun god,
radiates no light or salvation;
medicine, the god of cures,
kills the body to heal it;
biology, the earth god,
destroys the planet to save it;
philosophers, our modern Fates,
speak of justice, love, and faith,
but they can’t change
the course of humanity anymore.
Like parents
who’ve raised intelligent
kids using intuition and love,
every basilica here,
down to its last mosaic,
was blessed with the best science,
and no god will rescue
what humanity has built.
Your churches have seen
their architects die
and must stand by themselves—
like paper without memories
and memories without paper,
like light without lamps
and lamps without light,
like fire without forests
and forests without fire,
like water without thirst
and thirst without water,
like wine without years
and years without wine,
like plans without calendars,
and calendars without plans,
like saints without suffering,
and suffering without saints,
like chance without math
and math without chance,
like roads without maps,
and maps without roads,
like crutches without age,
and age without crutches,
like compasses without destinations
and destinations without compasses.
What we are is simply a ship
built with God’s blessing—
slowly approaching the iceberg
He created himself.
We’re just amateur pilots
who pray before flying—
begging Him to move mountains
our eyes will not see.
Christians have become
the most talented jewelers
who only make wedding rings
for prostitutes.
Ravenna, you bear so many crosses,
but where’s your Christ?
Likewise, the world is full of scientists
who can no longer hear the science.
What cross can hold
the branches of knowledge
that built the atomic bomb?
What church can pardon
the philosophies
that justified its use?
Which genius will be crucified
for the sins of science?
Drugs are just chemicals
if you wear a white coat;
torture is only a strategy
if you wave flags of democracy;
the death penalty isn’t murder
if committed in prison;
insanity is just a mental disorder
if observed by psychiatrists;
pollution is simply emission
if it also brings progress;
invasion of privacy is never invasive
when people must be protected.
If no god exists and life
is simply biology,
then science alone
is more useless than Christ.
Science alone is more
dogmatic than Scripture.
There’s no cure for God
or nuclear energy.
Christians will run out
of Christ’s blood
the way Earth will run out of oil.
Yes, sin must drink
from the purest rivers;
it cuts the Middle East’s heart
and pumps blood from the ground—
just to prevent mechanical arthritis;
sin needs uranium to bring light
because candles aren’t
effective enough for bombs.
Like criminals who can’t be redeemed,
medicine only starts praying
for patients when all hope is lost.
We’ve arrived at the hour of night
when even light can’t kill
our desire for sleep.
Dreams are an army trapped
in a world without ideology—
the freedom to declare war exists,
but there’s no reason to do so;
in the morning, ideology wakes
the simplicity of dreams
and begins interpreting
what it has witnessed.
If there’s no reason to declare war,
then we cannot, in good conscience,
say there’s no ideology,
for the very act of stipulating
the belief that there’s no reason
to declare war ultimately constitutes
the precise definition of what,
in fact, an ideology actually is.
Additionally, the concept of dreams
themselves is subject to debate.
For example, do dreams simply
constitute visions people have at night,
or are they part of a bigger paradigm
in the psycho-historical definition of a vision—
a great idea in the minds of noble men
who, unfortunately, ended up using terror
to achieve their ultimate goals?
What is necessary and what is not necessary?
What is necessity and can necessity
be unnecessary if necessity
is necessarily necessary?
If necessity is unnecessary now,
but will become necessary later,
can we truly say that unnecessary necessity
is necessarily unnecessary all the time?
If something is really unnecessary,
does it necessarily need a definition?
What is necessity and what is it not?
Is it defined by need or normative power?
I will define normative power as the ability
to change protected reasons. More precisely,
a man has normative power if he can by an action
of his exercise normative power.
An act is the exercise of a normative power
if there is sufficient reason
for regarding it either as a protected reason
or as cancelling protected reasons
and if the reason for so regarding
it is that it is desirable to enable people
to change protected reasons
by such acts, if they wish to do so.
Logic is like a coroner who thinks
he can find the cause of genius
in Einstein’s corpse.
No, Ravenna, we can’t endure
any more monsters
that defy logic and science,
but the future will force
doctors to pray for you.
Like someone unable to sense pain,
it’s now impossible to feel
how good things will get:
There will be no poverty
and no need for wealth;
no drug abuse and no need for drugs;
no alcoholism and no need for alcohol;
no racism and no need for race;
no country and no need for identity;
no homophobia and no need for gender;
no sexual abuse and no need for sex;
no divorce and no need for marriage;
no animal abuse and no need for animals;
no school violence and no need for school;
no corruption and no need for politicians;
no insanity and no need for personality;
no religion and no need for faith;
no diseases and no need for doctors or hospitals;
no crime and no need for police;
no loneliness and no need for family;
no advertisements and no need for desire;
no borders and no need to travel;
no hunger and no need for food;
no illiteracy and no need to read;
no accidents and no need for attention;
no forgetting and no need to remember;
no problems and no need to improve;
no excess and no need for emotion or poetry;
no sins and no need to repent;
no repentance and no need for church;
no need for church and no need for God;
no need to improve and no need for more science.
Yes, science will kill
all our problems—
then kill itself.
Science is the chemotherapy
for religion, insanity, and hunger.
God, personality, and the need
to eat will all die.
The future will erase
every chance of a new monster
being born here.
Progress is an architect
who wants to build
the tallest skyscrapers
in a suicidal world.
Progress is a university
where professors never ask questions—
they only give answers.
Destroy your churches, Ravenna,
and make space for development;
kneel before the altar of science—
it will be the all-knowing God.
Who will pray first to the new deity?
Who will build the first
temple to honor it?
Who will it be, Ravenna?
Who? Who? Who?
The world couldn’t sustain
two superpowers,
and it won’t have space
for two supergods.
During the Cold War,
the USSR had nuclear weapons
and the salvation of communism;
the US had nuclear weapons
and the salvation of God.
The weapons of God
are salvation and hell;
the weapons of science
bring salvation and hell.
There’s no more God in God,
and no more science in science.
The telescope’s eyes have seen
the universe’s nakedness,
and the curse of reason
has enslaved humanity since.
Reason made Africa inferior.
Reason invented Orientalism.
Reason didn’t create uranium,
but it justified its use.
Reason caused the Armenian Genocide,
the Holocaust, and other crimes
against biology.
Reason destroyed the devils of religion,
and created mechanized evil instead.
Swords and plagues
no longer bring God
to savages everywhere;
missiles and jets now fly
all over the world,
liberating people from savages
in the name of Uncle Sam,
his son, and the Natural American Spirit.
Yes, with the greatest science known to Christ,
and the wisest sophistry known to Socrates,
kill the Arabs in the name of God,
kill the Kurds in the name of the Father,
and kill the Persians in the name of the Son.
Ravenna, close the doors
of your basilicas;
take your crosses down.
No prayer can save you
from the monster that’s already born—
a double-headed Goliath
who speaks only the language
of science and logic,
and he lends no one
his ears—they belong only to him.
His enemies are everything
that can’t be understood.
He prays to reason
when formulas are speechless.
He denies his own wish
if it exists outside logic.
He only confesses faults
beyond his control.
He forgives only those
who make reasonable mistakes.
He pities individuals
with rational problems.
He helps people only if their need
is a theory, not a hypothesis.
He respects his neighbors
when they see the world his way.
He’s loyal in marriage
until biology instructs otherwise.
His justice is blind until
law itself undoes the blindfold.
His philosophy is objective until
more groundbreaking logic
changes the paradigm.
He never shows more compassion
than is mathematically necessary.
His inspiration is regimented
like a dictator’s army.
He enjoys killing with the passion of poets
and the precision of portrait painters.
His humility is the discovery
that fully disproves God’s existence.
He’s only patient when people
walk slowly on the road that he built.
He logically seeks peace
when others are stronger,
and wisely changes perspectives
when enemies are weak.
He’s a chameleon during regime changes
and king of the jungle when all predators are killed.
He never preaches or teaches a thing—
his work always speaks for itself.
He has no tolerance for dogma—
only facts which are true now
and will be disproven later.
He can’t stand indoctrination,
but his temples of pedagogy
are full of disciples who’d rather
learn something else.
What person can slay such a monster?
All the Davids in the world
don’t have the strength.
What beast slouches
towards Florence to be born?
What will be the New Testament of Science?
Ravenna, the bells of San Vitale
no longer provide peace;
they also have become too familiar—
like streets you can no longer
lose yourself on,
like people whose every secret
you already know,
like mourners whose sad cries
you’ve grown used to,
like children whose questions
you’ve all answered,
like cognac that’s too young for the glass,
like prayers you’ve committed to memory,
like sins you’ve committed hundreds of times,
like the unfinished dreams of insomniacs,
like compliments paid by careerists,
like love given by prostitutes.
The way oceans can exist without ships,
so a person can be without family;
the way oceans can’t live without waves,
so people can’t be without mystery.
Those who answer difficult questions
pay respect to their books
by building cemeteries to bury them.
Mortals who keep asking questions
only the gods can answer
honor their reason—
they build the grandest libraries
without books but still hope
that someone will bring
what’s needed inside.
What will philosophy do
when all the world’s problems are solved?
What will our problems look like
in a world where philosophy is dead?
1. All men are mortal.
2. Socrates is a man.
3. Therefore, Socrates is mortal.
This means keep your doors
open for now, Ravenna,
but when science disproves this logic,
no one can die on the cross anymore.
Your churches will be looted
by immortal hands the way
Christians brought down the Greek temples.
Accept your fate, you splendid city
of mosaics, cobblestone streets, and Dante.
The Supreme God is a dictator
who killed rival deities
to consolidate power
and rule humanity alone.
Now, science has come
with its pantheon
of gods to reclaim Olympus,
but science is weak as well;
it couldn’t survive
the temptation of nuclear power.
The devil got his way in Japan,
showing the world that it
lives on energy and matter alone—
always testing its Creator, the un