Monkeys talk. Barbie® thinks the Chinese are on
to something, their padded rooms and bamboo brains,
their snotty obscurantisme terroriste waylaid with diffidence
and a trace of blush from the Vietnamese.
This is the tao of the text, that want of computation
or supple mints infused with a hint of ginger
and misinterpretation. Barbie® lives in a portal reality
already, that ur-place of always simple
“I said, You said,” “Is, Is not.”
Ken’s got his nerve, seeing, naming, seeing.
That’s sheer theory for you, he will say,
an apocryphal obsolescence that accents
the then, the now and the was a matter of spilled repute.
Poppycock, from Barbie®, I’ve been misunder-tao’d, some pill
this ecriture turns out to be be to out ecriture turns this
chill of definition. Austin’s such a pretty town how this time
of now, so flat, devoid the difference between
Is and East, of Was and West:
Barbie®’s at the bridge, seeing
bats and wishing Ken knew
evil from good or mattered at the line between.
Always with his I’ve been misread, I am perpetual
bemused. China dances its idea-o-grams afire with this
artificial post card from a spur of a glassy
intelligent sponge. Terrorism!
But enough about me, Barbie® says,
it’s always been about the daddy, the dada,
rigored and regrouped if limited. Et cetera. How to
separate the letter from the alpha
or the omegabet, the glyph on horizons’ high edge? Mimetic
knobs from wordy liners, one-, two- or otherwise are all
the princess can count her peas with. Monkeys
talk, but do they in the event of eventuals understand:
every thing passes, and illocutionary forces
and illegitimate intentionality will also
find terror at the heart of the word.
A fortiori. What is held? Heart to hold
and to let go, this gram of trued memory before destruction.
The –osophies can be so ineffective. When held to a light,
so can we all.
Barbie® thinks Ken’s a swell guy, but she doubts
his love daily. Continues unabated,
his garden still full of the unnamed.
© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved
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