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the saddest blog that ever was
8.01.2006:
When we say, qua Wittgenstein, that of all things sacred one must remain silent, what of the sonorous mellefluous tones of love, qualities of sensation merely to be relegated to some tactile longing?
Pure optical fumbling of the eye, limbs stretched akimbo.
Haptic, wordless night swimming, natatorial splendor.
The fraying of nerves, decimated by the short, pulpy chop
of my language. Is this to be stillborn?
I breathe to birth
you, mon petit pont neuf
to the city of stars
bridge of my nostrils to my mouth
opening, to a ______?
Addendum:
Apropos legs-arms akimbo,
poem about oranges
you, quiet patience
for that indiscernible muteness
of large mammals
beleaguered by fates
beseiged by sadness,
a 'fortress of solitude,'
so they, we say.
Silence the prop
Cerebus that guards the gate
amidst all this wordplay.
Blog // 2:56 PM
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