“It is not how the world is that is mystical, but that it is”*

Wet leaves swim in the breeze;
everything is as it is, yet
nothing is ever how it seems:

As green falls to greet deep substance,
far above the breathing trees,
birds oscillate through waves unseen;

insects teem, mammals dream
& Gaia abounds with
collective recollections echoing

through space & time.

Ceaseless interaction,
constant inconstancy & change;  
the finitude that births infinity;

all that is beyond me, just as
there is an outer limit to all things,
beyond which others limits persist:
the world consists of what
does & does not exist.

* Ludwig Wittgenstein

What we cannot talk about…

“Was sich überhaupt sagen lässt, lässt sich klar sagen; und wovon man nicht reden kann, darüber muss man schweigen.” – Ludwig Wittgenstein

Words as thoughts,
as the libidinal urge
of consciousness.

Words as the sound of thoughts that drown
trying to escape the cave,
through the mouth.

Words as inert, lifeless objects
that become the conduit
for what I want to believe:

that thought is feeling, & feeling
has meaning beyond the context of this
place where we must exist;

that we can learn to live in peace
with the silence that speaks from beyond the symbol;

that brushing my fingers along your cheek
            down to your collarbone,
                without ever needing to speak,

you know what I'm trying to say…