There is an ineptitude in excess of feelings that devour all the words, until they are encountered by a large door painted with a medieval-mourning, clothed in a monk-brown; it is really not strange for me to be deeply in love and to be found at this gate, it is a segue doubly-enshrined by disbelief in yet a higher altitude by no higher altitude altogether, as if Meaning, eternally slipped away from the mouth of the language.
The words have already been used before and what is more for me to say but to go into my inventory and solve a puzzle of conjuring words that actually look like the steadfast knot of peace that has been gift-wrapped upon my monkey-heart.
The gift of happiness that is always so uncanny, but never with you.
Imagine a cotton-yarn sun
–all before the six days–
as it sat in absolution
like an apple in a still life painting
until the yarn spelled out
the threads became different
and people like words
had to be understood as different,
and in this uttered fission,
the woman without language
always remembered the fruit
which she could only bear
in more and more difference.
In the webs of the yarn
happened a day,
when the wires tangled so,
started moving backward into a fusion.
In this, the people who walked like words
fussed with a lack of voice,
with their right hands
they burnt all the new dictionaries
that had said
everything is everything.
I hated nostalgia,
for I was still a child
and what of child and the past,
and what of child and the future?
In my starry night,
I lapped in the moonlit sea
where wise turtles swam
and a bright meadow of stars spake,
of a vibrating universe
and secrets that evaded men,
but I like to think–they came close,
oh so close to me.
And when I came out of the sea
they thought it was the water-broke
and I was still a baby,
for I could not tell them what the stars said
and thus language, you’ve again
I make words
they unmake me,
when I am told that I am only them.
It is a terrible thing to live without language
and to be told,
it is the way of life.
I write words and I look at them,
These spaces between the letters
Where I divide myself and put me in it
For you to read
For you to breathe
The love I have felt
underneath the chapsticks of language,
I corrode in its cacophonous transactions,
What pitiful it gives
For the tinge of a blood-coated lip
Or the nestling smog on my coat,
I haply kneel… I bang at its chest
Language, you have betrayed me.
In circular motions at my throat,
The glitch that I feel
Of my tongue that has sailed to Elysium,
I cannot explain
The love I feel.
Do you then, dear reader
Dare offer a rose
At my grave
of a crude chin?
If you can not drink from my cup,
Let me still believe
You have tupped me empty
From my full.