Math is a peculiar beast.
It’s how we frame the cosmos.
Its meld of number/letter.
It’s the way we fell our gods.
The preacher on the corner
disagrees. Jesus thought of each of
us on the cross. Hands me a tract
on hell, how we’ll spin like it’s the spit
at Swiss Chalet.
A geneticist was asked
how many of us fuckups
have ever lived. 117 billion.
Ten seconds for every one
would take thirty-seven thousand
jaunts about the sun. That’s a long time
to be hanging
in the pall of our Golgothas.
I wouldn’t just slouch & ponder
if it were me. I’d consider Carmelina
while I rummage through the
mould of clementines. Angus as I
overcook my steak—no, as I stir
my curd of beans (I’m nearly vegan
after all). Then there’s Ruthie while I
water the hibiscus. My socks get
more than they. Amari as
I smash the stupid windmill at
Jehoshaphat’s mini-golf.
Timing is the sum of all.
I could’ve used the calculus
that I’d dropped—a squalid, dimpled
ball in the 18th cup.
My Muslim friend Huzaifa
keeps his cool, boasting the Arabs
gave their algebra to the world.
It’s not the selling point
he thinks it is.
I refrain from wrapping my club
around his head.
Then there’s Poseidon the Euclidian
prick. His geometry of get a life.
I’d love to watch a compass
lance his flesh, have to figure
out the obtuse
of his ass.
It’s possible that I can.
Displace him to
the front of the line. See him squirm
his way through 9.99
ticks—pencil on his ear, moored just like
a boat that’s set to drift,
far beyond his helix, whittling away
some nineteen billion minutes—
tallying all the tuna, naming them Juan &
Bertie like they’re human,
as if there’s something in the
yonder which loves you still.
Andreas Gripp
August 27, 2026
photograph: Visnjican Dusanka
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