There is no method for definition: to learn how to define. Definition is a consequence of imitation, its foundation so deeply grounded in our perceptual models of reality that any reform would only be an aberration of the original fortuity. We learnt to use a system of language through imitation and even the precision of mathematics remains illusory as a result of being an imposed code of rules embedded in the ambiguous amalgam of imitative language.
I would live,
dedicate my entire life
to defining a single word
properly – justly.
That word would be:
I do have other candidates,
perhaps I would define another
still stranger word: mysterious.
What is mysterious?
That which cannot be grasped intellectually.
That which is still unknown, unexplained,
perhaps the truly mysterious is
that which can never be explained by thought,
that which is intrinsically unknowable.
Here I am defining a word with other words.
But I would not stop there.
I would access zones of intuition,
a series of instruments predating language,
like an amulet that contains an entire cosmology
or a monolith that served as genesis to historical memory.
I would anchor my word to other unreliable words,
vague words that by their very nature would
serve as examples of the intangibility
of my definition for mysterious.
I would, for example, make mysterious
synonymous with Life, Happiness, Nirvana, etc
It dreams, sounds, quivers like a barrage
drenched in nostalgia these figuratively unknown
release the hungry words to pillage the earth out of its meaning
left with the questions that have already been answered by
above-the-clouds, silences-drawn-by-the-desert, light-colliding-water;
a definition that can be caressed and departed from
words that came so close to smelling of life
puny insignificancies that were almost a secret under the skin
my hand, these verbs and the kill
pogroms and a consequent silence
due to bluest aim
as a truth that defeats
a heaven in me
I have enough fall
to crack open
the yolk of essence
oozing through my
I keep evaporating
but the clouds
won’t integrate my
my thoughts taste
of cinnamon and world war
and yet they failed
it’s time to saw off
and let poetry
Those rotten truths and the atrophy of written words
life is outside the inferno of cadaverous literature
the ever-increasing waste of past thoughts
attempting impossible resurrections
free the world from fossilization
allow it to burn and dismiss its ashes
our best experiences are never contained
they roam beyond the frontiers of definition
close those covers of inky nothingness
step into the bare unadulterated flux
mend with the unknown
Flee from cages of routine and metropolitan nonsense
recognize the hollow of every day
reject the veil of prospects and careers:
usurpers of wonder and transformation
children of nowhere
creators of ambiguity
exorcise the daemons of logic
celebrate your insanity!
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