There Is Too Much Silence
Where Does The Word Resound, part two
Word was meant to be heard, not read.
Linked ciphers strewn across the page
are dead in your ears, and art will not
resurrect. But if I could say them
if you could just say them perhaps they would
join eye to ear and head to heart
then we could begin again:
to start again and say those things —
the one thing that we mean to say
the one thing we were meant to say
the thing that makes the difference.
Once upon a time’s no more.
The coffin for the word was built
and nailed air-tight so no breath could
break in or out: the spirit quenched.
If nails are bits of ones-and-ohs
or white snow of a plug-in-drug,
the substance of the box was made
from Guttenberg’s wooden bones.
Thus word remains bound and tied,
under the weight of page and code.
If you would like to support the poets coffee addiction: Coffee.