When language was young, bright lights were rare and meaningless. Trees could not doctor a frog or patiently remove time. Night was borne but Language barely stayed. Exclamation became a grace note in long guttural longings of sonic impulse. Language only felt right. Pictures were brief moments of motion, like a rabbit but flatter. Pictures wanted certainty in a blaze. Certainty was just a rock or stick, sometimes a cloud, like heaven in your mind. How could language be anything but a slicing noise in the candid empty and only implied. What is implication but the rushing sound of grass. Language doesn’t stick out. It is landscape. A breeze, the effort of leaves, muttering doves, underground surgings, oh language began some time, ago. Now what can you say after language? A steady rock in your mind remains.
poems, fireflies...