Cathedral of Meaning
Posted: May 10th, 2009, 6:57 am
What exists hardly notices itself
time is getting less at it fades
or we have "to much history"
as Whitehead said to the gray dove
time seems to fade into itself like
some painting of words that makes
a Cathedral of meaning, we become
that which is too much said, and not
enough really known about what passes
from one holy spirit of the head to the
other
If language was self-aware would it speak
about the roots of words and how they grow
from the soil of consciousness, how they feel
about how we use them to tell ourselves its
alright?
Or would we dig up the purpose of telling this
from a garden that has now become symbolic
has now changed into the knowledge of good
and evil, once the word was said by some other
word that we call the one word that made it all
there is nothing to be said about this, one word
as there is no way to speak with just ,"one word"
As the far fetched becomes more fetching as the
far away becomes more exotic to our senses we
begin to lose that one thing that connected it
there then seems to be an absolute dislocation
from the original meaning which was meaningless
to begin with
having said that, we can either invent some hole
through all this stuff we call matter and meaning
and imagine another universe where numbers and
light are still making a structure that exits in pure
face of expression, in expression held to the ineffable
or we translate the untranslatable and pluck
the rose petals from the unidentifiable object, now
up above the honey moon full as the dot the dot that
writes itself out of itself in a unfolding spiral of gold fire
an areola of unwritten written something surrounding it
this then a poem that has called itself a one poem poem
time is getting less at it fades
or we have "to much history"
as Whitehead said to the gray dove
time seems to fade into itself like
some painting of words that makes
a Cathedral of meaning, we become
that which is too much said, and not
enough really known about what passes
from one holy spirit of the head to the
other
If language was self-aware would it speak
about the roots of words and how they grow
from the soil of consciousness, how they feel
about how we use them to tell ourselves its
alright?
Or would we dig up the purpose of telling this
from a garden that has now become symbolic
has now changed into the knowledge of good
and evil, once the word was said by some other
word that we call the one word that made it all
there is nothing to be said about this, one word
as there is no way to speak with just ,"one word"
As the far fetched becomes more fetching as the
far away becomes more exotic to our senses we
begin to lose that one thing that connected it
there then seems to be an absolute dislocation
from the original meaning which was meaningless
to begin with
having said that, we can either invent some hole
through all this stuff we call matter and meaning
and imagine another universe where numbers and
light are still making a structure that exits in pure
face of expression, in expression held to the ineffable
or we translate the untranslatable and pluck
the rose petals from the unidentifiable object, now
up above the honey moon full as the dot the dot that
writes itself out of itself in a unfolding spiral of gold fire
an areola of unwritten written something surrounding it
this then a poem that has called itself a one poem poem