As the self disappears, mind watches, skating closer to the mean.
Watch out for the non-uniform error! Beware of noise!
No regression in my yoga, please; pass the reliable results.
“The entropy salad is very good – what’s in the dressing?”
“Cranberries and honey and vinegar and brown sugar and lemon
and banana and persimmon and cotton candy and asphalt
and calendula and scrub brush and reason
and periwinkle and submarine.”
It’s not just mind: all things fall apart.
I pray to Heisenberg to set me free while bombs
fall, the cat mews for milk and there is a crack in the teapot,
yet it does not leak, yet/not yet. The matrix oppresses,
expresses that what we observe is not nature itself, just nature
exposed to our method of questioning, the questioning
that continues on and on, chewing on itself, a fox in a trap,
until the bloody method is the only thing left.
Regression to the mean, the question of internal validity,
the compensator transporting the truth, scatter-shot,
filtered through small disturbances from laminar flow,
turbulence and the problem of stability skating
ever away, water striders on a lake in high summer.
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