the mind wanders

out through our eyes, a thing
amongst things / at the command

of words / blind to itself / it radiates

from a self / this world
of immanence
& ideality / its upheavals & turbulence

become ciphers
of the visible / a texture
of Being

// exhaled //

inside a space / of vision
& movement

of humans who speak
from a pre-spatial / world, intertwined

in the roots of being
this texture
between a hand / & another hand

not contained / a spectacle
of nothing
moving / but self-moving
it ignores

what is unknown / & we awaken
to an echo of bodies

the voices of light, soil
beneath our feet / shifting

& repeating

"we are the inside / of the outside / touching"

ourselvestouching

as a question
not of lines (there is no border
visible in itself) but the mind

enters these lines
as they pass / through us

& surround us / we see / but there is
no actual awakening
to hold / suspended / transformed

in a thought

this world
that demands things / of things

that are not in themselves / things
the plural x
of our operations / to substantiate

we enter into a reversibility
of dimensions

into a cultural regime / a thickness
of meaning

reduced to a set / of techniques
& data / a plane
that cannot be assigned

space

radiates onto a map
of the visible / transforms

a world / into things
where there is neither truth
nor falsehood

& no enigma
but that of the blinding
light / of visibility

forming shadows / a reflection / opened up
& so quickly closed

"the mind is an instrument that moves itself”

a metaphysics / of depth
that our eyes & hands
cannot discover

08/22/2011

Author's Note: (11/16/2011) Note to self: if you can't write, edit. Meaning, I am now a little bit happier with this sad excuse for a poem.

Posted on 08/23/2011
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