Thursday, October 9, 2014


They say
that there are active sentences
and agents
and objects
Intent can be diagrammed
Silent fragments
mean something

With the longest spoon in the world
we stir them up
and spit them out
fruitfully and fruitlessly
we chew and chew
savoring and gagging
struggling to swallow them
over the lumps in our throats
            Sputtering, slavering, and singing
            we spill and stain them
            and sometimes
            set them free
            Meaningless without
            their consummated nourishment
And sickened by
what they lack
Prepositions and propositions
go unanswered
and worse, unasked

Tongue tied with a satin ribbon
That decoration,
curled and dangling,
longs for a tiny grasp
to tug at its end
and release the middle part,
the tangled order,
of its essential knot
(for what is a ribbon
without its knot?)

Knots and nots
are so different
yet exactly the same
There is a place
where all ingredients
mean one
where the parts stack up
only to topple with
expression and nonsense
music and silence
trying to say the same thing
trying to say different things
and sometimes
trying to say
that which is
perfectly and horribly

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