When it comes time to really express yourself,
the ideational medium needs to be folded over itself,
to be kneaded and forged any number of times
before its virtuality becomes a medium
to be etched, inscribed or carved in a monumental sense.
Sound is probably an immanent guide
for uncanny sessions of taffy pulling.
The meat web is so dense,
even fingerprints are uniquely keyed to your genes,
and voice is probably like that too,
building its barcodes right up from the ground floor.
The medium is message is voice.
Meaning goes for a ride in sound...
or else it won't fly.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem