Chug-a-chug-a
Hush
Chug-a-chug-a Hush
Chug-a-chug-a Hush Hush
The experiment is noise. The experiment is loud. The experiment leans and grows and
growls and knows. Hush hush.
The radio blares: hush hush.
It has no stations, knows
no listeners. All is quiet, tuned
out, turned off.
Hush hush.
What was once a warning is now a declaration, a voice, a
kind remark. All stories that have
a beginning must have an end. Some
are made of air, and others of dense liquid words chained together like links
on a bicycle, teeth on a cog, moving fluidly around a center. They must be brushed. Chug-a-chug. They must be aired.
Chug-a-chug. They must be hardened,
molded into echoes.
Everything that emits sound must have a point of
origination. The tree in the
forest that falls still makes noise, except there is no one around to hear it.
All noise is vibration, ego, hot air, like a balloon that rises and disappears
into the stratosphere.
If you tie a message to a helium balloon and let it rise,
there is no guarantee that it will eventually land in another part of the world
so that someone can read the message.
All messages floated into the air are not guaranteed readers.
What was once a warning is now an annoying thing that simply
goes on and on like an unattended garishly loud politician. Ghandi would not approve.
What was once a warning is now a car lineup stuck in
traffic on its way to Cow Palace.
What was once a warning is now an omen scaring little
children into staying home when its dark.
What was once a warning is now a sign a signal, softening,
softer, softer with something important to say.
What is now a sign, a signal, should now be posted on a billboard
for all passersby to see.
What is now a sign, a signal is in need of attention:
The air of the ego is illusion but the blood of the heart is
a mechanism.
Chug-a-chug.
I hear Gertrude peaking through, " a sign, a signal, softening" I think you bring yourself to the brink of language and then, witnessing the precipice, reel back to making sense. I'm also guilty. Not saying I'm not. I've had the Gertrude beaten out of me. And I want to see it more...
ReplyDeleteAh, yes, tenderly, buttonly, there is no there, there. Perhaps I should include something about "reeling"?
ReplyDeleteChug-a-chug~
Reel feel distemper and a meal is all of forking and knives a while, charms.
ReplyDeleteI also found this today:
ReplyDeleteA writer should write with his eyes and a painter paint with his ears.
Gertrude Stein
;)
Gertrude Steins are built by the lessening of signifier and signified. Oblique rugs stand in for modes of ego and drought. Only the ego is offended by such offhanded misnomers. The black box of thought, on the other hand, prefers the random misrepresentations of fleece.
ReplyDelete