The God of Words
The God of Words is searching for a new dictionary;.
watching us in our journeys through foreign land.
Every millennia resetting the lexicon to try
this civilizing project
straining to write words
beneath our eyelids. We turned them up and out,
dying for the sun to dry who we were into us.
Words are just bone and fat searching
for a vein that can connect
everything – like when a brave explorer figures out the
clue to a buried treasure.
In these foreign lands we clawed through mountains
of sand and salt – cutting our palms. We climbed in-to-out-of salvation,
reaching the shoreline of our nations we gathered
plastic, condoms, drugs, babies, money, nuclear weapons:
hording meaning the way lovers wriggle out of each other’s tickling.
If the God of Words has given us this light-language
then we are filament overcome
by power surges, reduced
to illegal connections, given over
to higher rates and taxes.
Resolved to the ambiance of candles.
When the floods came we boarded up our doors and windows with dictionaries;
we built skyscrapers, declaring FINAL MEANING.
We didn’t feel small.
But how gargantually small: unable to feel the curvature of the Earth,
our languages like bows without arrows.
What can the arrow be but a new dictionary
of doubt. Saying: The God of Words is dead,
Becoming what we’ve always been – mute spirits of feeling –
in the sounds we only hear when pressed up
pore to pure to pore.