Staring into Evening

I am given over to writing, which reduces my ability to write. Every paradox is two things at once, neither orthodox. If I thought poetry was writing, I would not sing or draw or swim through the words. Give it up if you think the game of language can be won. We love text because it is unnatural, a pox to lay waste a civilization, an infection burrowing through us. A word is not a particle of the heart or the spleen, of goodness or evil intent, nor the first half of "love" left out into a call to attention ("lo!"), but it is, instead, an action of the mind and, as such, takes the shape of emotion or drained and pallid skin however is required by the action of word. Text is the better part of speech. A lung is worthless, sans music, without the tongue, the palate, the esophageal squeezebox of the throat. I gave up poetry for words years ago. Words are but particles of meaning, but they form chunks too large to swallow. Speak in the form of a single floating letter. Write in the manner of the minim. See Valhalla in the arching forms of punctuation. We are all stigmeologist, and what hang from the floors of the sentence are whatever we have come here to steal. Do not forgive me my silence just as you would not forgive my speaking of words. Conscience is not the most exalted form of science, not does it come with science into being. A pun was never once a time.

ecr. l'inf.