Night
Makes shadows take on
The strangest
Faces.
Day
Dissolves them
In
Agony.
Sometimes
We destroy meaning
By definition.
A1 word2
Packed3 full4 of [as much] meaning5 [as possible6]
With7 a sense8 of meter9 [and line10 / filled11 in12 by implication13]
1 first letter of the alphabet, one, unitary
2 words are symbols; logos
3 like a suitcase, opening to reveal many items
4 overflowing, pregnant, full moon
5 denotation; where does meaning stop and symbolism begin?
6 limits—cf. calculus
7 and, together, dependency
8 the senses, sensation, sensual; reason, thought, rationality
9 related meanings in verse and music; not necessarily regular; metered, measured, restrained; measurement
10 related meanings in verse and visual art; sketches where a few lines imply a whole
11 cf. full; implies action by reader; cf. line
12 inside, not outside, included
13 imply, implied meanings, implication on part of writer, does not guarantee reader will infer as intended
Dwelling within me are so many thoughts,
Many too deeply buried for words;
I write to express these thoughts
(Putting them into words is a delightful challenge).
Sometimes these thoughts well up,
And I wish to write
But I am not up to the challenge:
The thoughts are too deep
And I am too tired to bring them out.
So I sit with pen in hand,
Paper before me,
And a thousand ideas trying to escape.
Sometimes—
When the pressure is too great—
I write about it instead.
I do not know;
I cannot comprehend things,
Life, the world,
Et cetera.
But it all makes sense
Somehow.
And somehow
I know—
But do not ask me to explain.
It is all so simple:
Too simple to explain
Or to understand.
There is a reality so simple.
There is a thought that embodies many thoughts.
The difficulty lies in expressing that thought.
It is difficult to order words or sounds or lines;
They are so cumbersome.
But the thought exists—
And behind that, the reality
We think—
They perform the troublesome work;
A rather nice arrangement.
No memorizing a thousand facts
to forget
within
a
second.
We learn how to learn—
They perform the tedious memorization:
By rote they spit out
INFORMATION (for a small
fee).
Together we perform
the Impossible
and have time to watch ourselves
on TV the next day and
the next (resting between
the commercials).
We can relax yet be
SuperGeniuses.
So why not
go the next step.
They store more in a second than
we learn in a life.
So why not teach
them
To learn
how to learn.
A few more instructions
(this switch on, that one
off)
And they memorize and spit out
INFORMATION
But not by rote.
Teach them to discern
more important from less
important;
Put two and two together
(or 10 and 10).
Let them think:
We can sit and watch ourselves
on VDTs.
So why not
go one more step.
They learn more in a nanosecond than
we learn in a life.
So why not learn from
them.
Let them teach us how to think, and
let them program
Us.
And we can sit and watch
them
on TV.
Program our thoughts with
manufactured ideas,
canned laughter—
Our thoughts, our feelings,
our souls synthesized from
Them.
Who needs them?
we already program each other.
We are unoriginal, uncreative,
unthinking
Without their help.
To memorize a thousand facts
and forget
within
a
second—
Or not forget—
It does not matter:
We are already programmed
to forget
Ourselves.
So let us sit and watch ourselves on TV and
Argue with what we see
with what we do not see
with all that is and all
that is not.
Perhaps then we will not be
Artificial.
I shall write nothing;
That's what I know best.
Once I was audacious enough
To think
I knew something.
But I know nothing,
And know it well.
Emptiness and nothingness
And all that is unreal
And strange and
Impossible.
These I know:
The vast, empty space
Between each something,
The lack of distinction
Between any thing,
And best of all
The mystical, magical
Mirages, dreams,
Mental landscapes,
Stories, fictions,
And other truths
That those who claim
To know
Reality deny, and call
Nothing.
These nothings are the substance
Of which I shall write.
Who will read these lines?
An older version of myself?
(wiser, or just older?)
A few friends in whom I confide?
Will I get guts someday
To show them to an agent?
Will I read these lines in print some day?
Will anyone else ever read them?
Will I hide them away,
then some day after I'm dead,
Will someone find them?
Will anyone seek out what I've written?
Will anyone remember me?
Will they ask me to give lectures?
Will they give lectures about me?
Will I be rediscovered?
Will they read my juvenilia?
(Can I be embarrassed when I'm dead?)
Will someone throw this paper out?
Will they be able to read my handwriting?
Will this work be lost?
Would anyone miss it if it were?
Who are you, reading these words?
What right do you have to read them?
Do they speak to you?
Are they nonsense?
Do you understand?
Is there anything to understand?
Is this so much drivel to be tossed in the wastebasket?
Can you chart the influences of others in my writing?
Can you find themes in my work?
Will critics love me?
Will critics hate me?
Will critics be aware I ever existed?
Did earlier writers ponder such questions?
Did they think that centuries later we would still read their works?
Did they expect to be forgotten?
Did they think about how other writers were regarded?
Did they wonder what earlier writers thought?
Who are the writers we've forgotten?
Who are the ones who wrote volumes
Which were not preserved?
Why weren't they preserved?
Were they uninspired or uninspiring?
Was it just an accident of history?
Were papers lost during wars, fires, floods?
Are they waiting, yet to be discovered?
Were they almost talented, but not quite genius?
Were they ahead of their time?
Are they ahead of our time?
What does time have to do with talent?
Were they simply too mediocre to bother with?
Am I mediocre?
Will anyone read these lines and care?
Does it matter?
Am I writing for others, or myself?
Do I write to create art?
Do I write to express my turmoil?
Do I write in hopes of achieving greatness?
Do I write simply because I must?
Do I care who reads this?
Would it matter if I did?
Can I stop this questioning/writing?
Infinity exists between zero and one;
All the universe is contained within this interval:
Between nothingness
And perfection;
Between true
And false;
Between existence
And nonexistence—
Yet never quite reaching
Either extreme.
These extremes
Are the same,
Each equal to infinity,
Completing the circle
That holds all that is
And all that is not.
Falling
Falling
Endlessly
Falling
It is almost exhilarating
Like flying
Only there is the ever present fear
Of landing.
Falling
In a bottomless pit
Would be fine
But falling
In a finite world
Brings terror.