If you want to feel like you've fallen off of the cliff of reality while smoking pot and rolling in sewage, pick up a copy of Linda Hucheon's Poetics of Postmodernism and read chapter 7 about historiographic metafiction. She rips to pieces the idea of historical "fact" and removes the last Jenga block by saying there is no such thing as verifiable telos; ie, we can never actually prove that one historic event led to another. Reminds me a lot of chaos theory and quantum physics. I wrote the poem below awhile back about those very things, marveling at the fact that no matter how big science's microscope gets, we will never actually "see" God, but we inevitably see the eerie footprints of his work. For instance, neuroscientists understand a lot now about the I/O of the brain, but they still have no clue whatsoever how consciousness works.

at play in the fields of the Lord

the unbreaking bounds
of shaking sounds
which quake and drown
two leagues down
which breaks us down
into manageable beats
at measurable octaves
at unmentionable speeds
all dancing
all gluing
us together
nothing better
than cellular symphonies
crashing headlong
into cellular symphonies
which chaotically intertwine
in chemical wine
they branch
they mesh
collide and stretch
dilute and gel
resembling
hell,
picasso techno
breakbeating at unprecedented
tempo,
electric kempo.
and like magic 3d
you strain to see
seeming forms
and harmony
elusive symmetry
and terrifyingly:
for in the threshing mix
the lightning soup
the patterns shyly yield
and hidden in the field
there is some Will
at play