When all the matter of the universe finally finds a wall or floor or ceiling, the knocking will be enormous, and it will have to be heard, because, if there is a wall there is logically something on the other side of it, something that can hear it, wouldn’t you say? I suppose you can’t take this seriously, but it is in my peculiar chemistry to find it plausible. What could be on the other side of the wall? The dead? Well—the souls of the dead? It’s hopeful. In such case, they would be sitting at God’s feet and learning wisdom like a flock of hippies on a mountain learning from a guru. The wall would be dancing, of course, scientifically speaking, and the matter of the universe, made of mere ephemerons and faked to look like a façade, would not be half as solid as the wall of God’s projective garden. Pascal would know how to penetrate it, though, thinking reed that he was, his thought would go through like wind-music; and that would be his great gambler’s soul. Oh, but God! when all the matter of the universe finally finds a wall, the knocking will be enormous!
E.M. Schorb’s latest collection of prose poems is Manhattan Spleen. Some appear in most recent issues of Main Street Rag, Poetry Salzburg Review, and Oxford Poetry. His novel, A Portable Chaos, is revised after winning the Eric Hoffer Award for Fiction and his Resurgius: A Sixties Sex Comedy is just out.