Sometimes, I want to blow, blow away
all the words - like God! A wordless creation
untrammeled and unfettered, and complete.
Words were invented to take control, to bind
all things to their respective meanings; even love
evolved to its brilliant catharsis, so called.
Words invent worlds of their own, curling up
as books, or spread out in the morning paper
enact world events in sentences: 'il n'ya
'pas d'hors texte' Derrida claimed, at last,
as if wiping out the reality once identified
in writing, the consummate translation.
The universe has no verbal orders, none
could cope with its intricacies of process;
unless, the parallel of words is acknowledged
that limits for man his entire world, the
superficial childish notions that seem to work;
in the universe, the perfection itself.