114. Seven Senses All in One

 

 

seven as | the sense of scent

I see about the world | what

its people are about | cautious

in their bravery | given to bouts

of always doing the same thing

whoever it was | who told you

they were there | he did not

know they never | existed

my greatest friends | are such

imaginings | upon the surface

of my brain | lachrymal

I might be | in the face of this

horror | but horror doesn’t    

give way to | or entrance to

the soul trapped under each

ribcage of us | we entrance

ourselves | with stories of

that which never happened

to us | because such stories

are better | constructed

 

you do understand | there is

nothing to understand here?

the point of words | is not

to communicate | but to

gyrate | it is the movement

of sound | that matters

the way a letter | sits

on a page | how the ink of

a letter seeps | into fibers

of paper | only to stop

moving and to | freeze

itself | to dry itself out

and become a steady signal

beaming out | across the

earth | a small beacon

to show a person once

spoke here | with his fingers

to leave a little | story

(likely false | but we cannot

quibble | we only accept)

 

to put it another way | the

word | is not made to mean

just to entertain | meaning

is fraught | expects resolution

requires far too much | out of

the unassembled audience

for its text or sound or | even

movement | those motions

making meaning | from gesture

the urge for | communication

is so strong | we lean into

the word | huddle against

it | try to explain to it all

the needs it must | fulfill

so our lives will | once again

if they ever were | be

transcendent | so we can

realize we have | but

so little time to make any

sense | of this nonsense