The Unknowableness Of Words Poem by Denis Mair

Cruel, elegant and determined forms loom in front of me like lobsters. I stand against these bristling gauntlets thrown in my face. I stand for an aesthetic of tender sprouts and half-formed, things. In the name of indeterminacy, I hope my tenuous gestures will forever fly the flag of quirkdom... May they patrol the most tenebrous edges and flash-freeze the shapes of fountains.

We've been using words to understand things, but they are the biggest conundrum of all. Maybe you can define this or that word, but what does it mean to be using words? Words are subject to infections by spores and viruses of any kind...sectarianism, elitism, racism, you name it....They've been breathing thru the same nostril with mushrooms from the beginning... They were in on the ground floor with music, yet too often they hold themselves aloof. They lure you down a primrose path, then slyly turn insipid. They have you surrounded, but they make you think you have them surrounded. They are a cold medium when you want them to be warm. They are the reason that Zen koans are so frustrating. Who determines the meanings of words? Who is the knower of words? Where is the handle by which we can begin to grapple with such questions? To come up with an answer, one needs a good bashing on the head. Sometime later, just thinking about it will be like hearing music of the spheres.

It's amazing what words can conjure up...all those concrescences and congelations...those thought-forms that hang in the mind's sky like clouds, holding shape until you look away. They are suffused with color and light effects. They are as fat as plums and obey no agenda except a GROK agenda. The high weirdness is right down here at home.

Words are the wharves where we send off our life-force on voyages into the unknown. Reverie is a virtual fabric that continually adds more human meaning to the sky. The most creative eras are those which hurl improvisations into the void. Intrepid souls hurl themselves toward all sectors of possibility space. Either savor those spaces of possibility or project your intentions into them, otherwise you might as well identify with a meat-clock. Swim or get out of the vertical pond. The candelabrum will stand.