Thursday, May 12, 2011

353. The Words of It

I’m the worst
thing there is:
a poet, dreadfelt
and drumbeaten.
You might hear
the sound of it
in a drop of paint,
like my beloved
acrylics, their
gentle sheen and
slather. Life is
of the senses or
senseless, so an
oil paint will do
for the nose. All
these purified
colors presented
for the nose and
the eye. Even
the itchiest need
goes scratchless
without an
attempt. It is all
meaningless, of
course, to you,
from the vantage
point of these
words, or what
they are or
purport to be
(a poem, which
is, of course, the
worst thing to
be—suddenly,
something
happens, but
where is the poem
in all of this?
Nowhere, because
it is precisely
[check the
coordinates]
exactly where
nothing happens,
and you are
lucky to be
not there [meaning
here] for it not
to happen). Take
a rest from words
and their place
in the world,
as a worm in
your head, and you
will make the time
you need for what
sense you want
of nothing. There
is a purity, like
color, in the absence
of words. It is like
something let go
to fly, and the only
way from you is
away. You can
find a way thru
them, this swarm
of muttering. You
can find the way
without even
the sense of sweeping
them out. You dispel
what you don’t need
and dwell within
that littlest range
of possibility
between what you
cannot have and
what you must
have—the slightest
of differences. It is
in this way, thru
this process that
you learn just what
it is to smell the
small paints on
your finger, to see
how they color
everything, to see
how they color
everything you see.

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