A Poem for Lyn Hejinian

                                                               Close laptop; close.
                                                               To elder ways I must return.
                                                               To stylus and tabula.
                                                               To searing the forehead with numbered brands.

A secret secretes its truth;
There is no truth if it is not a secret.
"Arrant prose" said H. James of Whitman.
Arrant prose it is then, with respects to both.
In the beginning was an infinitesmally compact burst of meaning into memory.
The cosmos are prostituted
But creation is eternally a first love.
You can find a way to say anything,
Except you can't say it just any way.
Holy books may still be written.
Knowledge is to understand, not think.
These pretty aphorisms jumbled together.
Poiesis is life and Anamnesis is death.
This is a most sublime abomination we live.
Ebonics is an unique behavioral unity-in-diaspora
that is better to not imperialize with sameness any more.
Hegel's archive is a bad infinity.