Sir Karl Popper's "Science as Falsification"

Liner

Follow them rules for fun, because that's what we do - for the why.
What is that, you ask?  The tautological fun just because we're supposed to –
we do.  Just because you just told us to, we won't.  I'll stick out my tongue and break
only the rules I'm really not supposed to break.  They'll break to my will and I'll have
my fun.

Pain Convenient

Wake up
turn the lights on.
The city, the money
the hard and soft wires, waves -
forms of living that beckon you
endure the buzzing electric static between
clear pictures.  The headache in the midst of love.

Encompass Within It Et Al

We wonder here and now.  How and what it must have felt
for those souls long gone by now.  Those we loved and those we dreamt of.
The sea runs softly if you know it like a single body.  The internal sex
running along the sandy shores wrapped around our worlds, the ebbing
the webs, the eggs, waiting - floating, seeking to grow like eyes looking
toward the light of futures surfacing, beads of water falling.  Goggles wiped -
fresh air gasped.  At the permeable membrane of conscious liquid,
your arms spread apart like wings, helping just a little bit.

One Kind

The information, how it is
with the material.  It looks like something
I am reminded of.  Something similar, I remember.  In my head, mimicked or represented,
copied somehow to store and keep for later recollection, my living library inside of me,
interacting and exchanging, changing and reiterating chemical plans and random rocks falling
into place.  Codes for code, for that feeling that you and I shared over and over among all
kinds of buildings, trees, and seas.  What it meant for us, it meant only for us while we were busy
being alive.

Rest of It

It ends abruptly.  When your attention is given, sunken
into the interesting things your hands are handling, writing
descriptions of beauty in chaos observed
in the length of your lifetime you value,
you cancel the noise of other needs.
This needless chase, the cliff be damned,
running every which way, wherever we may today
the field is dreamt awake and asleep –
we run out of things to chase and keep running
away toward the new.

Welcome,
welcome,
welcome,
you.

Antipathy

The pose is struck.  The poet is shot.  The trigger is pulled first
in the mind before the finger.  In the feeling before the thought,
in the nightly lack where there is nothing where there is ought.
Lamps without bulbs, switches with no effect, the house illuminates
with imagined possibilities as simple as shining soft – electricity.  Glow
instantly revealing brighter colors than could otherwise be seen.  The silence
seems to listen, so it's spoken to.  Troves of secrets and heartfelt wordless
sense of absence.  Nothing, neither voice nor memory, speaks back.
The silence never existed, but you could have never known that.