Art Is Poem by D A Phinney

art is but a faint and veiled remembrance
of a real world
science is the real world rendered abstract
and finally substitute
the tyranny of a (genetic?) directive
which allows us to pretend at evolution
since we cannot make the real stuff
our world is a world of choices
denied all other beings
we have named our ability to choose
(as we must name all things
to sense them anymore)
free will
by choosing we alter the inside
and the choice shoots out of us
to careen and carom about the environment
which in turn careens and caroms us about
we are bent twisted and shell-shocked
by our own imagination
this we call adaptation
we are a simulation test of the evolutionary process
an imitator of the imagination we imagine
evolution to possess
and in time are all compressed
when we are gone
some fine new being will be molded in our image
but ever so slowly
and avoiding our mistakes
observe the insects
who have heeded the evolutionary adage
practice makes perfect