This begins back in the days of the unsent letters. This begins before the era of private hand held worlds. Back before the age of detachment, back before the bubble burst. It is longer than the stretch of memory, further away than all these useless dreams. I start to follow, then it eludes me. I see the passage right as the passage is gone. They say history ends because they can't stop talking. They let you speak so they can think of the next thing to say.
There is nothing new about
this fleeting purchase. There is nothing new about the words unmoored.
The language always marked by great scars and faint striations, always
tattooed with the rope and the lash. The adjusted definition always a
tumult to some dull soul. The witness always close to the victim of the
crime. This sea of twitches and little regard. This illusion that this
confusion could be cured by more words.
Again I get lost out here
in the tall weeds. Again I lose my way out walking in the rain. These
words and words that allow no transit. These lights that only serve to
blind. Because they forget, there is no history. Because they forget,
the meaning is gone. Nothing ever gained from attempted communication.
This dismay my only purpose. Only as good as the very last thing said.