Quarclet: Wayne Clifford


Little Things Can Mean So Much

~Wayne Clifford


The LHC must be a form of love,
some EEG of God’s synaptic pulse,
a whirligig, that our invention prove
the Other under matter where the Else
allows we are at all. Professor Higgs
was curious one morning where the mass
of quarks and leptons came from, so that big’s
inertial lump clump from each ertial ass
those newly baby bits of bangage mooned
at the Great Nothing. Higgs conceived a field,
by which creating, while he afternooned,
the weightiness of cosmos unconcealed.


Such heavy thought bore all he had invested.
Each sign was mete. Higgs, the evening, rested.




A-stunk of ozone, concrete damp, and cold,
I figure, smells and feels that darkened place
where, in the clicks and thumps of curving space,
a hum’s as deep a word as God has told.


And if I wonder at a space-time fold
approaching speed of light, streams of grace
colliding face to face and so embrace
what ordinary particles withhold,
I might just fear what I can’t know of stuff
and prophesy “Black hole!”, or “Fatal burst
of neutron radiation!” or, yes!, enough
of taxpayers’ cash to make things worse.


Oh, don’t be silly. Higgs wished not offend
the godly, nor give the world so sudden end.


From darkest matter, what we best might learn
is God Herself most likely’d not dis CERN
(though CERN, God bless’em, got it wrong with Higgs,
and thought his thought a flying of the pigs,
ennuaged[1] in an if (they didn’t take
his paper (God smiled at that mistake))).


Around, around, by a magnetic pull
of more raw juice than villages might use
on darkest nights when wolf might howl its call
in darkest woods between, and heart refuse
to think the demon any sort of man
the villagers call God, though no heart
admit the sacrilege,


to stalk God’s plan,
the magnets rend the mysteries apart.




The wolf waits in the ’cello at A#.
I’m not so good a player that the G
gets stopped that high that often. Since it’s me
the wolf awaits, my bow pressure that’ll warp
such stuttering vibration, oh, how I harp
on ’cello imperfections. But better be
a poor player than never get to see
that G string flutter, hear that warbled yawp!


I try to note in that unmusic all
the lengths of strings that bring the forces knit
as atoms.
As Pythagoras might have done.


And times I sit just to sound that caul
of oscillation, since such compose this git.


That by it, far and other, I’m unalone.




I think that God must be a word (for some
so abstract as to be unspelled); belief’s
a self-hypnosis come from staring dumb
at this so filled and empty world deceives
in being almost here. O leptons, sing!


The long of all that is and spanned can be
equivocates along each tensioned string
that fixed at this end plays a speck of me,
and at the other?
What entanglement
has twinned me to this question, this desire?


If going ’round in circles with our toys
reduces God to just a biggest noise,
we untranslate the spells to what is meant,
not what was spoken. O very hadrons, choir!


Just what is this ennuaging business? Find out in Quarc.

Wayne Clifford’s atomic components were once used by Marcus Aurelius, Yikin Chan Kawiil, Vlad Tepes and Pocahontas.


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