Joron Solves the Equation

My, how mind
finds its rhyme
in negation,
in the face of all spaces
sung into being:
the poet as verb,
the dactyls as fractals,
the frisson
and éclat
as word precludes
world
in tactile and tactical cellular will

When it’s only the lack
of an access
to non-local
vocalizations:
to the vision they call
creation.

For word precedes world
(though the latter’s hanging logic ladder chalkmarks the dead),
there’s singing beyond the string,
beyond the thread—

Higgs’ Boson is merely behavior.

The New York School talked of Pollock by day
But dreamed about De Chirico…

I’m your biggest fan
but let’s not mince words:
this is about communication…
not power and freedom, chaos and order—
for chaos lives
in the eyes of beholders—
all systems are common perceptions,
the steps to a dance
of duality’s dissonance;
the harmony
of the spheres
is irreducible
to silence.

The language
chooses you
in the feeding
field,
where we decide
as Gods
we’ve forgotten how to be.

We call it light,
what we see
and night is only
evil
as we want it to be.

The self-generating is actually self
generating.

The second New York School talked Derrida and Foucault
But dreamed of chaos theory…

How easy to dig
your whole
and pull up my own
chaos.
Your closed-off perceptions
open right up,
transcend my own existence.
The mystery clears
before the latch
closes,
between two closed systems—
kept crypt and received receptacle—
differing in crystal,
circumscribed by their own skin.
Clarity escapes.
The miraculous series
of synchronicities
can’t fake this.
The window onto multiverse
cannot disguise
how the whole,
like the shadow,
knows
but can’t say
except, say, that truth is overrated,
Nerves only tune to their own amplitudes.

Oblation’s ovation,
that language itself
can be changed
By iterations
interactive intersecting,
while the mask
in the mirror, adjacent
to consciousness
cannot escape
eyes.

We won’t remember
the high-fives
of crumbling society,
the bolts of symmetry,
as much as what it felt like to be free.

A poem waves another wand,
a shifting underground,
the gifting of a cup
the world believes
in nothing til we say it…

The New York School to come will talk about mathematics
But dream of imperfection, last vestige of the human.

The Sound Mirror