We each of us tread deftly
on the borders of sorcery,
milady. Oh lordy, take
heady warning and heed
this hearty encouragement
against the unseemly and
seamy examples of those
who’ve strayed seemingly
too far over bluff’s edge.
Found themselves
in the incredible
Wile E. Coyote position,
standing on air: looking down,
down, gazing for hours
into an iridescent abyss:
a charcoal midnight purple
curtain of infinite transparency
and opacity in descending
chiaroscuro depths,
with party lanterns
hung deep all through,
shifting positions according
to some inner math and music,
each its own.
This is language.
If we’re not careful,
it could steal all you mean
from within you and present it
to the one in front of you: impossibly
perfect, full and exact. All it takes
is you know
what you mean
about each thing.
Which is not the same thing,
but you’ll also know:
what it means
to you. All it asks
then, is that you dedicate
aim in finding and catching
each word-by-word,
catch-as-catch can,
every delicate or sturdy
vessel for such meaning
and sense, to aim in meaning
well-spent ’til the last one drops,
and bleeds
out dry.
That is all language wants of us
who feel its call.
It seemed at the time a joy
- not much to ask? But
language it turns, has
a trickier seem
than most note.
It is not us.
It is not a thing like us,
language.
It is nothing
to do with us.
Except in use
and pondering.
It is alien.
It came
from before us,
most of it.
However you fancy
yourself a nonce artist,
a neologian, you plant
puny seed in a field miles deep
whose trees were acorns, once
floating between stars. Yet
past a point you feel flush with it.
Even as-if smug! Some never pass
though and out of that point. Child,
it is no credit to us.
Not whatsoever. It is a force
that does not live, but hangs
between us all in mind.
It has purchase in us,
already so deep.
Do not let it buy you out.
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