Geof Huth

wavelight, than which (continued)


Of the least one the most thought, smallness engendering, allowing, precision in perception, detail of being, recollection of been. Take a dust mote, fiber of forgotten, floating through a slant of sun, & thus becoming at once itself, perceived, & reminder of sun, how the warm light fell not forward but diagonal through not darkness but space, an old desk, marred from use, undisturbed for years, a blue-black bottle of blue-black ink, & yet no pen, no reservoir to fill, or of knowledge, words, not hitting, but clattering, crystals of sunlight scattered on the floor.


There tends, as if, to be a movement, movements toward fact as towards reality, movement equating action, reality equating intention, syntax mere synapses going pyrotechnic, how it means, the timbre of our grunted thoughts, heavy timbers that cannot move, as it moves, the words move &, moving, move us, but, as it is cannot so be, so it tends more than is, open to question, delegated below authority, happening without justification, occurring, occurred, occurs, as it.


With this, as a sound, that it happens, so, as it can be, from & to & fro, an instant, an instance of, perception caught, how it slips, away, free to recede. It all disappears each word of thought, touch of skin, the dry sound of the cat’s tongue on an elbow, leaving a reverberation, quieter, then quieter, more quietly becomes memory. Slap of branch across the face, remembered, if it is, as generic experience: slash of sunlight, plunge into ice water, holding your breath—the counting.


It’s its, that it is is it, what it is, in the way it is, in it. So, as so, as a button is sewn onto a vest, a seed is sown into the soil, the sound of it, of its, of its sound & spitting, spitting it, its spit. Out, & how without it is, beyond the boundary, before the border, how it falls away, outside from inside, outdoors to indoors, the door, open, letting in the cold, the darkness, the crickets, just their song.


Conspicuously, it wanders before your eyes, green on blue, adjusting its carriage to insinuate a thought, yet you do not think it, a parasitic sound, what you see through, glasses, of a different sort, tumbler, seeing, through condensation, glass, water, ice, & all that persists, projects, is color, in blotches, green on blue, what it is, in gradations subsiding, as it diminishes, to night or light, the seen but a seeing, an action of self, inaction of object, made, from, out of, whole cloth, whole.


Still, yet, it continues, as intention, what goes forward as it does, & what returns, just as it is, as righteousness. In the process, what accumulates, piece by bit, tartar on teeth, sharp like bitter wind, how they wind the scarves about their necks, tighter, then to tight, until, the breath runs out, eyes dim. She was pretty, beautiful, a damselfly, drying its winds, such small & tender winds, how they hold the light aloft, extend the daylight, light her face, sunlight so light it floats away.


It is of the count of that, as it comes to be, it occurs, not like a clock, but backwards, counterclockwise, counterintuitively, like a rope rolled back into a cylinder. Imagination requires, of what it is, the instantiation of itself, word to page, letter to card, mail to what is sent, how it comes to be received & read, as wisdom.


Articulation of the fact is the fact itself, broken into segments like bones, which lead through a finger, as bending, in & out, to point. It, out of what is conceived, is it, as what it was, unremembered as past, can never exist, the dull running of an engine at a stoplight, murmur, how the exhaust tires.


Beyond is how within extends it, the carriage of a thought, words bundled to fasces, to hit, a thud, that recognition, of light, in morning, the sun upon each closed eyelid, the red rays that only sun, traveled the millions of units, to this lake, water still dark, each rippling catching illumination & darkness.


Therefore that, as a piece, as the mind, such as it requires, of it, accumulation, the gathering of experience, into thought, be it, then considering it, mind, a receptacle, that is, from it, the just alkahest, dissolving not itself, every thought to meaning, but.


In consequence to, as it is due, to be, the sense of inkling, how expectation of word, against, paper with pen, implies as it insists, that. Whatever in being it meant is what intently is meant, thought the action incorporates, not as assessment to language, regarding meaning’s hegemony as every prison door, shut.


Interdependent, how, in a proposal of saying, the being of it through, though the reality of breeze engenders, as it fragments, not in a line, a swirling segmented, each occasion for an occasion of, & sometimes for action, it is, as reaction births noticed, how we see it, declaration, independent of us.


In reality, it, really, is, not, so much is as tends, a simple garden conceived, as against a plan, as order, though struggle of weeds, expands into forest, each branch, thick with muscle, a random acorn of a squirrel’s irretrievable thought, the footprint of its intention a notice less than air.


Fixity, as it is fixed, as it is, fixed, as it is, is it, thought it wanders through, as process of amalgam & discard, change. The disregard of it merely, though unimplied, what is necessary to it, as it is, fixed, though, broken, it transforms each thought of itself, as itself, also, is.


For the consideration of it, as we believe it to be, separate from it as is, confuses as it melds perception as reflection with being as seeing, through the right manner, or as all that is left, after wonder imagines, of its huddled suggestions, what the ancients called awe.


Whirling, as a dervish, an instance of it, can be perceived, as motion, swirling, or stasis, deviled eggs, so it, as bedeviling notion, inquires, without, & before, expectation of action, delivery of theory, the apple that drops, hit by an arrov, from the boy’s head, before it falls, into her hands, for, as it goes, that story, his bite.


Derivation appears, from that vantage point, to come from, yet it moves toward. A word, isolate, as it cannot, will be inconstant to any internal meaning, meaning being external, as weather to skin, to perception, to knowledge, & serving a valise not travel, not clothes & toothbrush, traverses areas of significance, significantly, across eras, thus errors.


Deliberate, as deliberations, in its sense of it, intends as it contends, expressing thought, as a duck, though not, a duck, not feathers, plastic, inflatable, substance of folly, how it releases, as it extends through time, till process, that form of process, reduces, by extraction, its being to absence, the breath of it, out.


As explained, it occurs fully to person as so, yet so, as so, it rejects as being, yet believed, for belief, that minor thought, concretizes it, even as, for so it be, each object of substance, treasured to mind, decreases to, as confusion’s quarry, not a rock, so imagined, by a blind shrew, dug, from the ground, out, grounded, by extended meanings.


Onion of thought, only thought, hollow, sphere within hollow, sphere, coheres by fracture, sliced, by blade, to crescent, crescents curved into crescents, that white scent, sharp to the eyes, neither whole, nor, assumed, by its transformation, to piece, thought, each, peaceful, rests through heat, caramelized, just as was, but distinct from.


There is none, no it, of it, though expectation requires &, of it, perception confirms. Each it exists, not in discretion, discrete, but unitary, as one, that it of, that single poem, a note, notation or sound, word or heard, continuing, vacillating, one variegated, modulating, expressed whole, an absence to intellect, a reality to senses, there, & thus.


Burgeon, the only action, is object, yet refusal, beast of each thought, collective reality, &, as it is, designed & arbitrary, sign, how it crosses, through belief, each kneeling, bent to, genuflection of, thought, rough outline against the beast of, what, as received belief we continue, into that forward motion, toward, & away.

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