Why do some of us love nothing
so much as complex nothingness?
Poetry is a simple instrument
that breaks the continuous flow,

part of a carefully constructed system
of abstract symbols. Doubt and distrust
seem just as true; interpretative biases
are inevitable. What lies we tell.

Writing itself is a process of discovery.
It can be read as marks printed on paper
or heard as long and short notes.
There are ways of using repetition.

The syntax and grammar of a spoken tongue
propels the reader through the landscape
by seductive whispering in the ear.
There are ways of using repetition.

I posit a world beyond measurement.
We are a wonderful paradox
whose meaning escapes interpretation.
There are ways of using repetition.

Experience and quotation intersect.
Whatever attentive reader
might loose the lightning,
I acknowledge my debts right now.

We are discussing the individual words,
cannot crack the code; the pictograph
is the substance of communication,
phantom pain after the loss of a limb.

We can be moved by the memory:
birds and women conjoined in stone,
swollen symbols of fertility,
paired beneath blessing hands.

Mystical vocabulary brings
propensity for astonishment.
Time seems to run out
with nagging persistence.

Voyages into abstraction
must be documented:
plot the position of
these nameless countries;

make the mute articulate;
sort out music from the sound.
I want to insist on experience,
call this state of being wonder.

I sometimes never know
which part of my poem is yours.
The whole mix of self & search
arrives over forgotten airwaves.

I could make these four-line stanzas
quirky, irregular and sensuously inert,
send jargon to landfill and recontextualise.
The urinal might become a fountain.

Signs have a history of changing meaning:
in old maps the compass points
were often referred to as winds.
I may be charged but I ain't moved.

I am not part of the circle
although every game I ever played
stressed the loop, the elaborate
meandering of imagination.

I sense you aren't entirely sure:
the shadow as well as the silhouette
must be dealt with, there should be
at least a faint tremor of sense.

Observe, interpret and experience.
Notice the faded disturbance of darkness,
the unforeseen movement of light.
Language is the only thing in the world.