| Sun mEandering iRonics madE soNics briDge connectIng hodgePodge foundlIngs faTal happY
|
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 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...
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!
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
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 hardly at-all,
then, nonetheless
when it's all but over,
wrap it up
in many Mansions
for LotusBlossomslaughter.
'til it's
'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.
