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Context



As far as I know
is as far as I go.

You know, I know, a little of my heart.
But there's so much you don't know about my mind, and I am mostly mind,
striving to know the words that align so well one needn't know them;
to feel the fit that creates meaning and persuades of purpose,
to co-opt the frumious, to verbally nullify every void, contain with graphomania.

If you crave novelty, words are the cheapest way to summon it:
simply asking is a spell that conjures what is desired surprisingly often.
Everything is mine (to use). Like performing stage magic without an assistant,
with impromptu props, to interface with interference, interfere with interface
in a scrambled data storage reality (entropy-reduction protocols offline).

Connotation's another sense as important as the others
in helping us parse the context of our world,
interrogate the assumptions underlying precision,
the techniques for transport that allow collected remnants
to accompany through eternal change.

Erratic, auratic, words, resisted, will release you
from much, thought puncturing punctuation, but not from the infinite
pressures of the sayable unsaid, the effluent effects of affectations.
What is in us that we move so quickly from word
back to image as soon as we can?

Is poetry dead?
Or does poetry live, unnoticed,
among the dead?

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.