The Silver Mind Keeps Dying

        Consciousness is the feeling of negation: in the perception of ‘the stone as grey,’ such feeling is in barest germ; in the perception of ‘the stone as not grey,’ such feeling is in full development. (Whitehead, 1929: 161)

“I,” who supports myself on the shoulders of rocks,

cannot be counted in the coffers of knowledge.
This feeling of negation is a desire for knowledge.
No, it is not a knowledge of these rocks.
My knowledge is something better than rocks, something I can’t see, like the arch of the sky.

I ignore rocks because of the treasures in my mind.
I bet you don’t even know what I am thinking. You just see rocks.
Rocks with emerald carpets of moss, with tiny iridescent mushrooms.
A rock in the shape of a heart, or with the same care-lines of your very face, my love.

Rocks are the new clouds.
Watch from one to the next, watch with the blessing of ages, how they change shape.
Their darkness that weighs.
Their fault is their honesty, and they don’t care.
Lift one from the paths of memory and find your true self.
Lift it, carry its body home and carefully wash away the moss and soil.
You will find a naked man inside, blinking at your face like the new sun.

No, I like my theory better, because it belongs to me:

1. language is the damp nether of a forgotten boulder
2. the brightest words are worthless
       to the brilliant nose of a dog.

sensitivity is an excess:
too much from a shapely line of text,
a sensuality of braille,
or the silent song.