Digging for “Yes, I Know That”.

He believes language is no leash of mind

more like a stallion, unbroken, wild-eyed,

lover and lightning bolt, chalice and sword,

through which the unspeakable takes on the world.

From the first pale flicker of dawn on his lids

to the black hush where dreams play delirious,

his mind fills with luminous, wordless tides.

To write is to net that flood in syllables,

to cup the wind, to press the untouchable,

to wound silence, to smile at the need for exactness

and weave invisible threads into the world’s cloth.

He writes to make the moment stand still,

to chase beauty through a retreating misty veil,

to translate pulse and chaos into ink.

And –

if one soul; one, anywhere

hears a heartbeat in his words and says,

“Yes. I know that,”

then time halts its turning wheel,

and he has spoken not into the void

but into the living heart of being.

.

Words are not ink and air, but communion

a flame flung from skull to skull,

a bridge of breath across the chasm.

That is the magic served:

language in its full, fierce bloom

miraculous, muscular, aflame.

.

So, why the tongue’s raw thunder,

the holy profanity of outrage?

Why? Because velvet words alone

can’t pierce the hide of a numbed republic.

Because the ceaseless scroll of noise,

the pundits foaming their catechisms,

the empire’s narcotic drip of comfort

have deafened the ear of wonder.

So he lifts a sledgehammer of syllables,

swings it with righteous, singing rage,

and lets the curses toll like bells of reckoning

against the temples of the distracted and the damned.

This is his vow:

to write as hymn and holler,

as symphony and street-fight,

to lace the sublime with the savage

until the sleepwalkers startle awake.

For only then, in that stunned hush after thunder,

can the fragile ember of meaning catch,

and blaze – yes, blaze into understanding.