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Thursday, November 29, 2007

Room 105a


I have carefully extracted “giggle”,
and placed it on this page.

Its Origins, its resonations —
rise from it. It waits.

You cannot imagine with what
intense tension, with what
age-old sharpness my heart
waited - my hand trembling -
to recommence.

Or how my lungs —
soldier like - kept stiffly to attention,
as I teased, and eased, and tickled, and slid —
gently, gently, as an ancient lover’s whisper
—Or the first touch. The —

—Such immensity of blank, encyclopaedic meaning,
unfolding, or just being —

like those electron shells
with their secret numbers,

Clinging to the thinking night of time.

and those numerals: so knowing,
so smirking in their numberness —
the wrench-squig of their symbolic:

we go deeper, penetrating the reds,
the greater resonations, the oak wood,
the teak dark depths.

So many petals.

You cannot conceive
the intense concentration as my head
transformed to a vast glass sphere:
with a precise, and tireless, and all-watching eye:

- and intented thru, like all the winter's winds
had seized themselves into the glass.

fingers like leafic fingers –

And the silence: you -
you would never know that silence:

You struggle toward the word,
but it dashes thru time, spinning, and blurring;

- and, I cant. I try though:

I shove my hand into the Nothing Flower.

It’s sort of like the difference
between eating glass powder,
or touching a red rose to a nipple:

it erecting, it massing:

And you recall, the surprise in dead eyes.

The word waits in the unseen dark.

But the music begins, colours brighten,
And it all wakes up, the whirling;
the cacophony - it was never dead —
and the merry-go-round
zips up the centuries:
“giggle” is placed,

wet, limp, and lifted gently by a scalpel,
& extracted as a stamp
is lifted from damp paper.

I place Its Honour at the top
of this page: reverentially.

If we had not forgotten its ancient speech
or lost its transmit frequency —

I would have listened to it with one of my
antennae that sprout on my bulging,
and vitreous head.

I gently slide, or transfer,
the delicate, foetal ‘giggle’ onto the page.

It dries and recovers.

After breakfast,
a hot bath, coffee, and bacon and eggs,
"giggle" feels cleaner, repleter, contenter.

I touch giggle on its ‘gs’
and smile, and think of
its long evolve — the four billion years —
the stories it could tell:

the gulfs we have crossed,

And that strange sense you get
when you open a door in a stone wall,
and see the same, but totally unrecognisable face,

staring at you: trying to signal something.

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