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
That once I found mirrors
sprawled on the floor, and I
looked for the mountains
of my eyes.
There were many
but lightly had I
taken flecks of skin
to cover the mirrors;
that I wanted to see
no more my reflection
but only feel the caress
it was about blood
that trickles like a mute river
around the architecture of bones.
myriad of angles,
a hollow breeze trapped
but circulating from one
morsel to the next,
the opulent scattering
of cavities and memories.
I would never comprehend
the purpose but once
inside I could walk
counting the domes
of each mystery
like beads in a rosary.
I could even step upon
the slabs of shadow
for I was only
an invisible thought
measuring the joy
of the black earth.
I see a wall and it is a blink
between two explosions
the thick blankness of thought
as my only faith;
ergo I cry
the dry pain that
floats like a memory;
I see silence
like a color
like a flame
like a muscle
that bends the stars,
I don’t care
like a wave of frequency,
I must be nothing
glancing at the faint
enormity of life.
The future does not care for poetry or ambiguity.
It thrives in pristine clear expressions of thought and action.
It despises the vagueness of unnatural associations.
The sinking sound
the crest of the red suppose
the eternal system
elected a song as carriage
of its power.
Grandiloquent expressions as the above will be ridiculed.
The concrete matter-of-fact will be the only subject of interest.
Poetry will slowly fade out of view as did the rotary dial.
The world of fact will flourish.
Doubt will dissipate, the psyche will be freed of contradiction.
In the future, the ex-poet will turn towards the objective.
Like a lion on a gazelle.
These are some of the last unruly poems to emerge.
that nothing can be understood
that trees make waves of transparent flying ointment
birds fluttering wings in atomic curls of laughter
a pebble the size of pain sinking in the stomach
of minds with no hands sculpting the invisible thought
a hole in the ground where we plant a bone
so it blooms like a flower of striped fire
confusing the stars for our parents
and pale dry flakes of sin as our former selves
the hand making shadows on the empty wall of time
where nothing can be changed and we sit
on sidewalks oozing the ancient bubbles of speech
mirroring the breath of drying tobacco fields
and swimming where the saliva twirls in gold desire
because we did not control the first kiss
that enamored us with fatal bliss of birth
that ends in destined death
That I must use language to describe an unusual event which was anything but words makes my task already futile but I will communicate the strange braid of emotion, perception and thought that made that moment possible as I was standing at the end of a sidewalk a piece of, what it seemed like, a poster was stuck to the ground and an outreaching extremity hanged over the miniature precipice between the sidewalk and the gutter this limb of paper this appendix of matter fluttered in the wind and I felt as if standing above a slice of eternal existence flapping under my very feet a small, oblique, strand of whatever moving in sequences that would make me believe in beauty.