We've begun work on a new dictionary. It is composed entirely of non-existing words defined by other non-existing words. It is a closed system, completely saturated with non-meaning. It is not a reference work, it is a container of ontological vacuity. It is not something that will actually exist. It is the idea of the rumor of a thought, an informational contagion. Its reference invades innocent words like a virus invades cells. It propagates through the air by word of mouth. It harnesses the power of vocabulary to insinuate non-meaning into the collective unconscious. Without a basis for existence, it establishes itself by implication. It is a harmless harm, seemingly naught, an echo of itself. The biggest threat to its conceit is that you will forget all about it. And tell no one.
The latest revision of this unruly draft plagiarizes pieces, whole chunks, alas from the now abandoned previous pass The carcass, once vibrant and meaty now quartered with care, leaves little for the vultures but a dour scent and some tufts of hair The new revision is on to something now it can smell it, the crux of it oh man, oh wow But the bits and pieces arrayed in a flashy, bold new architecture suggest nothing much new, hint that another slaughter and rending is due The latest revision now bears no resemblance to its ancestors, has seemed to lose the thread of that something-or-other need be said Perhaps the current jumble is a total loss with nothing to salvage, a deposit of dross
So, karma's like a virus infecting innocent thoughts with promises, always of something hopeful and new. It's all just recycled confusion, perceived as appealing converting innocent thoughts into the machinery of delusion. Seeing things as empty of any reality whatsoever is lunacy, they will say whose views are hijacked by the ingenuity of display. Better to be crazy like a Buddha than just plain crazy, any day.
Jack of all Dharmas, a master of none
Tattoo of the Mani, hair up in a bun
Quick flash of insight seemed boundless in reach
He’s got it down pat now, he’s ready to teach
So I gave them enough rope like you said, and they tied me up with it. I bring this up, because if you'll recall our conversation you had said, and I quote... Yes, I'll hold.
Light particles already waved their goodbye as apparent effects when they entered the eye See the studious chaps when the functions collapse asking who, what and where, also why Probability means what it means when it does but cannot when it probably doesn't Does not at all mean the experiment seen was such, when it probably wasn't
The space bar keeps the words apart
as if they want to fight
but if they ran together all
it wouldn’t be quite right.
A little space is what we need
for us to get along
a little time to catch our breath
correct me if I’m wrong.
So let me tell you this one thing
my lips upon your ear
let’s enjoy ourselves apart
for six months, no a year.
To this she said a decade
would hardly be enough
and gathered all her things in arm
and left in quite the huff.
I said I didn’t mean it
but she’d gone and hadn’t heard
now my space bar mocks me
at the end of every word.
Well now I’ve gone and done it
to deny it would be wrong
I went and done wrote lyrics
to a goofy country song.
A Word Apart originally appeared here October 5th, 2016.
it's nice when things are smooth to touch our fingers like this very much and good when walkways claw and grip our feet don't like it when we slip especially when we're way up high as we could fall and maybe die before we've had a chance to mend our evil ways: we meet our end
Behold the wheel as motion incarnate. Inventor of the metaphor. Roundation is its pride, spokes the whispering of its ministers, its axle the secret grief. Turning until the grease dries up, then burning.
A mechanism, its gears a-turning. In thinking, wheels turning, turning. Spheres of influence, around, around. Circles have no need of ground. Sanskrit chakra has a sound like wheels knocking cobbled lanes. Strike and clap again, again. The arc, a portion of the round, its back is bent. It makes no sound.
The curve that sneaks in fluidly all paths and motions, blunts the angle, rounds the bend, transcribes the swing. It does its thing. It snugs the rim of hat and crown. Same as same when upside down! Once gone, just wait, it comes around.
Self, the center of conception, the spokes relate in rays the scenes. The never was but could have beens. What comes around, will go around, in startless parts, no stops or starts. It turns upon its secret grief. The axle happy in its grease. How does it make its way, by feel?
The ship, it has a steering wheel.
The light that we see by provisioned as much by sight as by a persistent radiance Has little angels dancing on the heads of all its little pins Seeking always the refraction that fans it all out into rainbows How is this different from visions of the Blessed Virgin Appearing again, and again in unexpected places to the solace of the faithful The wonder of the crowds and expectation of the Absolute