Words do not
seem to play a role
words do not seem to play in this thought.
The thought playing wordlessly.
Hoarding will not act. The hoard has no sentence to say.
Ordering refuses a role. This making order is not sentient
And collecting and sharing are still not words.
If each term crosses where, or what, is the middle marker?
If in the present moment there is a field of memory, are we remembering or presently discovering?
Losing finding collecting losing finding. What is the loosing of information that it may become wordless play in thought?
Perhaps knowing only becomes knowledge after it has been rolled back and forth in the dust?
The rain makes mud. Mud makes seeds. Seeds meanwhile are in the hub.
Sprouting is the crossing over, mud made green. This dusty here and now spouting pollen. Pongnation, pollination, words dusting our shirts.
Pollen is snared in a spiral of wind, a sneeze, asneese. This force blasts around in a moment, the moment partakes of consciousness’ travelogue.
There is something in my imagination which insists on the play of conceiving, inwardly, what is, outwardly, too big to ever properly perceive.
I brim over with cosmological schematics: the grand systole diastole of it all, big bang and big crunch.
It is but nothing of course, squeezed between this system of many worlds and the next multi-verse along (of which we can say nothing other than we have met there).
Many verses sung become one song. Some verses are hummed in the dark. This tune behind tune is simultaneous radiation and coagulation, without a word, dark matter nurturing the space within each thought.
Dyslexia is meant to indicate a “trouble with words”, therefore in many respects we are all dyslexic because words are trouble.
But let us hover in this stillness of a collision.
A single aspect of the multitude, stopped in a snot expulsion.
This infinite porridge gradually coalesces into a thick, complex, and quite promising universe. There is a quiet promise even in this universe, it it making my nose twitch.