Friday, January 14, 2011

235. Written with Thumbs

Of words,
So empty

Of words so empty

Little peelings if eyes
Little peakings of sighs

In ossuaries
& bones as
Ornaments to
Forgotten
Bodies of
Knowledge

Unspooled
Or spilled
Onto or
Into even
If three

The sound
Of voice
Is a
Hollowness
Pushed out
Into space
Into spaces
Small enough
Like an ear
To hear
Them

Thus sound
Is always
Echo even if
Argument

Distance
Won’t matter
As matter
Won’t mind
Since voice
May be
Lettered
Cultured
Into molds
Or pearls
& scattered
Over a time
Of space

An audience
Is a hearing
Before a body
Whose
Pronouncements
Never come

So we are
The creators of
Debilitations

Of a right
Hand that won’t
Write

Of a left
Hand left
Idol as
Memorial
To written
Words
Unwritten
On the walls
Of every
Palace
Where we
Would not
Be given a
Night’s berth

Morning is
The only
Daily sign
Of beginning
So there is
A sadness
To it
In the guise
Of wailing

The birds
Do it first
& also

Cries
Coming from
Breasts
Of balsam
Bones &
Breaking
With each
Song’s
Bending
In & out

Snow is
The repository
Of light
& the shadows
Flying over
What cannot
Be touched
Or down
Or upon

Silence is
Worry’s
Manifestation
Or a sign
Of pleasantries
Upon the cross

We pass
Words among
Each other
& out

For only
In dreaming
Do we
Hear those
Meanings
Trapped
Inside the
Corpuscles
Of sound
Capsules of
Pebbled ink
Upon pages
After pages
Of screens
Beyond screens
Of vague
Shapes
As if
Legs of
Giant
Spiders
Escaping
Through
The edges
Of the fog
That guides
Us inward
To that
Languid
Beating heart
Beat out
& forth
From pushing
What it
Cannot hold
In place or
Even places
Kept secret
From that
Core & central
Self speaking
Only backwards
So you never

Understand
The words

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