Serendipity: the happenstance of meaning -- the happy dance of gleaning

Sun            mEandering              iRonics        madE           soNics           briDge  connectIng    hodgePodge     foundlIngs           faTal      happY              w Ith           wo Nder   The  languag E           no R   The            w E're   Xpanding       nega Tive-space        lang Uage-weeps   After-words         whir L'd               o F             d Uality,   tremblin G   Upon            th E      victim S,

sometimes meaning is an arbitrary thing we do to fill in our blank looks -- nevertheless, the thing we do with words to make them wing on feathers dipped in tears and laughter, to mime the looks we give each other, and woo our reader into our serenade of serendipity with the happenstance-of-meaning gleaming from their eyes... 

the happenstance-of-meaning is gleaning that we leak in language; A-lexi–thymia: Literally meaning “no words for emotions.” -- there is Beauty in unfettered language -- like Jazz, it becomes fluid and undulates meaning within the main components of the Poem -- 

the happenstance-of-meaning, foundlings of the great or small

the friction made from rubbing the heart 'n mind together

the imagination aspires from the limits of syntactical-chains

binding us to the tunnel-visions of common sense:

this present imperfect tense 

this present imperfect tense in the happenstance of meaning -- there is Beauty in these fettered phrasings -- as the tongue carries the forms-and-rituals of the word, sounds rolling as a tidal wash upon a wild-worn shore, tumbling, reaching forwards, then, where deep calls to deep, moving back-words for some more... 

intertextual ironics <--> uber-lexical sonics -- the happenstance of meaning is the happy dance of gleaning

                                   intertextual fugues <~> sǝnƃnɟ ןɐnʇxǝʇɹǝʇuıi

Somehow, the level of meaning, intended and happenstance in a write, are co-dependent upon the level of the reader gleaning, i.e., their 'comprehension' their 'wonderment' and all of their 'bad-education.'

it has become evident to me, that the 'meaning' envisioned by the Author will probably have been revisioned by the Reader. Hence the subjective like/dislike quality to the tale told. Engrams or HieroGlyphs branded in the brain via synaptic structures are inter-looped: there where you can gather more dendrites by adding new memories to old thus creating a modular set of precepts in the garnering of meaning. Musing further, to use Socrates validation, 'seeming is often master of the reality' and we therefore need to agree to terms for an agreed meaning to be garnered. To deter the 'revisionist' and march like 'soldier lemmings' off an agreed upon ledge, to 'meanings' fatal fall, to reasons fatal flaw ... that it is co-dependent upon Language=Syntax (agreements of form) for connecting, while Poetry is the flow and rhythm of words, sound-scapes which create meaning from word-movement; reflecting is optional!! and yet we 'disturb' meaning by recreating Language in our own image according to these HieroGlyphic-synaptic modules we've garnered. Subjective intertextual ironics made of objective (echoing Nature) uber-lexical sonics become the happy dance of gleaning meaning.

Language is a bridge, connecting, but the bridge has a syntax you gotta' pay to getta'cross what you wanna' say; Poetry is the stream below, murmuring, reflecting many Suns; meandering modulated-sounds for each 'n everyone!

In the phenomenology of Love coupled with the visceReality of joyousness which frissons up the spine, what remains is our own courage to change the world from inside out withoutta’ doubt, that lost Art of interior-design … it starts with wonder imbued in awe, unbound by the language of ‘reason’ nor by the fatal-skin we’re in, uncluttered with the pitter-patter of patterns promulgated by all of our bad education nor spoilt by the cliché of tribal-mediocrity!

Caput inter nubila condit.

She hides her head among the clouds. 

intertextual fugues 

The happenstance of meaning,

in a hodgepodge of words.

with inherent seeming allured. 

One is Joy, 

another addiction.

Like me, 

like my 

inflated sense

of word.

Flags waving,

look at me,

and my words

we are WRITEoUS!

We are what we

Write.

Write flowers

and streams

and

windy chimes.

Face facts,

Words escape

meaning

with cowardly

defenses like

paragraphs

and

syntactical

alliances.

Prepositions 

pasteurize,

so that whimsy

and

freedom are

battered,

suffering

split infinitives.

Similes with

spiritual

accents

and

distinctive

adaptations of

cunning.

Read liberated, inebriated;

fight the

oppressor, as

the maker of

meaning

is

you! 

    you        

           hear infinity in the conch of your ears hissing there 

                        while liquid last eyes 

                        see the numinous that's moving-us

into an ephemeral shining at the back of the mind,

illuminating the limits of the fatal skin you're-in -- 
let's be

dumb and        

stare at forever!

      let's be  this grinning 

                  empty, drooling,

                        free of meaning, ghost-hunter of the eye...

nevermind worrying in soft murmurs, 

let's linger astutely,  
then hardly at-all,

                then, nonetheless

           when it's all but over,

         wrap it up

            in many Mansions

                    for LotusBlossomslaughter. 

'til it's 

Xpanding negative-space

...from the eye

of a howling-pen,

language-weeps

language-weeps

after-words language-weeps

from the wounds that reason makes;

seeps from the wound of omission,

seeps from some super-scary-SaṃsKāra,

seeps from the whirl'd of tunneling-fear,

seeps from some gimme-gimballed duality,

the wound that is an imperfect rorriM:MirrorRorrim

where they're trembling from the loss,

from their lessons upon the alter, from getting stoned, over and over again,

in the wailing rhythm of suffering;

innocent victims, like you and me,

lost between infinite-Love and "I'm not worthy,"

there, you know, just there where the stretchered edges in longings go,

where we all strive to Love, yet stray only to affection,

and falter lessor still, yes, there where we whimper in the clinging,

instead of weeping for the longing Dream, 

there where were bursting at the seams

of what it all means...

                                             pop

                              there 

where it's dark and deep.