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<!doctype html>
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<title>Zk | Numeno</title>
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<h1>Zk | Numeno</h1>
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<article class="content">
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<p><span class="tag">writing</span> <span class="tag">poetry</span> <span class="tag">spirituality</span></p>
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<h2 id="contents">Contents</h2>
<ul>
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<li>Numeno</li>
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<li>Overflowing with words</li>
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<li>On numbers</li>
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<li>The year starts not&hellip;</li>
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<li>Ode to the end of death</li>
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</ul>
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<h2 id="numeno">Numeno</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Eigengrau</em> and <em>ally</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">Inter ĝuo kaj timo
Estas loko de tro da signifo.
Apud kompreno, ekster saĝo,
Tamen ĝi tutampleksas.
Mi kompareble malgrandas
Kaj ĝi tro granda estas.
Nekomprenebla
Nekontestebla,
Senmova kaj ĉiam ŝanĝiĝema.
-----
Between joy and fear
Is a place of too much meaning.
Next to understanding, outside wisdom,
It nonetheless expands.
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I&rsquo;m so small beside it
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and it is too big.
Incomprehensible,
Incontestible,
Unmoving and always changing.</div>
<hr />
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<h2 id="overflowing-with-words">Overflowing with words</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">Parts in <em>ally</em></q></p>
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<style>
.speak {
line-height: 0.3;
}
</style>
<div class="verse speak">
speak to me
speak to me
speak to me
speak to me
speak to me
speak to me
speak to me
that i may see
that i may see
that i may see
that i may see
that i may see
the face of god
the face of god
the face of god
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</div>
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<div class="verse">god is between me and my heart
god is not a part of me
i stand apart from myself
and god cannot stop me</div>
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<div class="verse">the soul is defined by
negative space</div>
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<div class="verse">I was born at the edge of the numinous.
That is why I can tread along the border.
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That is why I&rsquo;m able to whisper the name of God.
That is why I&rsquo;m allowed to know the number and how to factor it.
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That is why I have seven fingers spread wide and three curled toward my heart.
That is why my limbs trace the curves and lines of power when I dance.
That is why I sit with my back to the sun in summer.
That is why my body is a canvas.
You were born in sunlight.
Speak secrets into my hair.
Take my words from me.
Spend the intercalary days telling me lies.
Break my dystonia with a breath.
Wash my face with salt water.
Tell me the name you call yourself.
Close my eyes.
We will sleep in the shade.
Let me bless you with smoke.
Let me bathe your feet.
Let me light the candles.
Let me place a stone beneath my tongue.
Let me taste copper.
Let me draw in ash.
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Let me rise up until my head is in the branches and my hair becomes the leaves.</div>
<div class="verse">At the beginning of time,
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when chaos birthed to order and disorder,
we were blessed with two souls.
One has seven eyes and can see all of the monsters in the dark,
but is blinded by the sun.
The other has no eyes,
but can feel no pain.
When order and disorder were close as children,
our souls experienced the world hand in hand,
but as they drifted apart and began to fight,
some of us left one of our souls behind,
and that is why we search.
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</div>
<div class="verse">Babel was a collaborative effort.
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Once,
we all spoke the same language,
but on seeing god grow increasingly anxious with the rate of our progress,
we agreed to let our tongues be confused,
so that he could take things at a more comfortable pace,
and we could be assured he would not understand us unless we prayed in silence,
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for only then do we speak the language of angels.</div>
<div class="verse">I went for a walk and was driven by impulse to collect five sticks.
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They had to be as straight as possible.
They had to be balanced as close to the middle as possible.
They had to be the same length without me breaking them.
They had to have been from different trees.
They had to have fallen more than a year prior.
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When I got home, I lay them in a row, asked my question, and, one by one, broke them in half.</div>
<div class="verse">When I speak, the words drip from my tongue as ink,
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and form writing on the ground,
and I leave a trail behind me,
and the ink stains your feet,
and when you walk, words and phrases and sentences are pressed into the soil,
and the ink breathes life into the plants,
and even the grass will flower,
and the bees will flourish,
and they will both sting you and provide you with sweet honey.
The ink stains my chin and my clothes.
Sometimes, I speak into my hands and stain my cheeks as well.
I speak against my fingers and press them into my flesh until I am covered in rosettes.
I stretch my hands to the sky and marvel at how black they are.
And as with the grass, where the ink stains, growth quickens, and I am covered in soft fur.
I fall to all fours and hunt amid the rocks and the buildings, between cars and along trails.
And when I am full, I curl up to sleep, and awake human once again.
My skin is clean and my mind is clear,
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and I cannot speak.</div>
<div class="verse">The only time I know my true name is when I pray.
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The only time I pray is at the utmost need.
To pray is to ask yourself what you dare not ask god.
To answer your own question, you must step outside yourself.
To step outside yourself, you must forget your true name.
The only time I know my true name is when I pray.</div>
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<hr />
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<h2 id="on-numbers">On Numbers</h2>
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<div class="verse">Seven slow hours pass.
Five doors open in my heart.
Three versions of me step forth.
Two quick breaths.
One unending death.</div>
<div class="verse">Anchor me now to reality.
Pin me to perception
or perception to me.
Loose me amid fractal walls.
Let successive numbers claim me
or me claim them.</div>
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<div class="verse">Breathe
<em>Breathe</em>
Rise up
Or maybe not
Maybe clutch at the soil
Maybe grasp for purchase, maybe search for solidity
Maybe aim for reality, maybe overshoot, maybe catch a glimpse as you pass
Maybe regret, maybe despise, maybe beat your fists against the nothing that remains and mime a shout with your non-voice
And maybe, just maybe, failing all that, maybe give in
to the awful, awe-filled pressure, that overwhelming, inevitable wave,
and maybe pay that price, and maybe lose yourself, and
maybe in dissolving, breathe.</div>
<div class="verse">2
3
4
7
11
13
17
19
23</div>
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<h2 id="liminality">Liminality</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Eigengrau</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">A year starts not on January first.
The days may hunder but the seasons speak
of time&rsquo;s long march, of fast time, slow time. Thirst
for &ldquo;start&rdquo; and &ldquo;end&rdquo; neglects the limen sleek.
So, why do some unsubtle sciences
forget about the in-betweens? Those pure
uncolored dreams made mere contrivances;
&ldquo;between the years&rdquo; now simply: &ldquo;year, then year&rdquo;.
These rough mechanics, held unseen, can spoil
the beauty of our silent spaces, take
from us the liminality, embroil
our lives in cold and tired minutiae.
Come sit with me, come stay with me inside
this place between where strange new loves abide</div>
<h2 id="ode-to-the-end-of-death">Ode to the end of death</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Qoheleth</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">I am at a loss for images in this end of days:
I have sight but cannot see.
I build my castle out of words;
I cannot stop myself from speaking.
I still have will and goals to reach for,
I still have wants and needs.
If I dream, is that not so?
If I dream, am I no longer myself?
If I dream, am I still buried beneath words?
And I still dream even while awake.
Life breeds life, but death must now be chosen
for memory ends at the teeth of death.
The living know that they will die,
but the dead know nothing.
Hold my name beneath your tongue and know:
when you die, thus dies the memory of me.
To deny the end is to deny all beginnings,
and to deny beginnings is to become immortal,
and to become immortal is to repeat the past,
which cannot itself, in the end, be denied.
Oh, but to whom do I speak these words?
To whom do I plead my case?
From whence do I call out?
What right have I?
No ranks of angels will answer to dreamers,
No unknowable spaces echo my words.
Before whom do I kneel, contrite?
Behind whom do I await my judgment?
Beside whom do I face death?
And why wait I for an answer?
Among those who create are those who forge:
They move from creation to creation.
And those who remain are those who hone,
Perfecting a single art to a cruel point.
To forge is to end, and to own beginnings.
To hone is to trade ends for perpetual starts.
In this end of days, I must begin anew.
In this end of days, I seek an end.
In this end of days, I reach for new beginnings
that I may find the middle path.
Time is a finger pointing at itself
that it might give the world orders.
The world is an audience before a stage
where it watches the slow hours progress.
And we are the motes in the stage-lights,
Beholden to the heat of the lamps.
If I walk backward, time moves forward.
If I walk forward, time rushes on.
If I stand still, the world moves around me,
and the only constant is change.
Memory is a mirror of hammered silver:
a weapon against the waking world.
Dreams are the plate-glass atop memory:
a clarifying agent that reflects the sun.
The waking world fogs the view,
and time makes prey of remembering.
I remember sands beneath my feet.
I remember the rattle of dry grass.
I remember the names of all things,
and forget them only when I wake.
If I am to bathe in dreams,
then I must be willing to submerge myself.
If I am to submerge myself in memory,
then I must be true to myself.
If I am to always be true to myself,
then I must in all ways be earnest.
I must keep no veil between me and my words.
I must set no stones between me and my actions.
I must show no hesitation when speaking my name,
for that is my only possession.
The only time I know my true name is when I dream.
The only time I dream is when need an answer.
Why ask questions, here at the end of all things?
Why ask questions when the answers will not help?
To know one&rsquo;s true name is to know god.
To know god is to answer unasked questions.
Do I know god after the end of all things?
Do I know god when I do not remember myself?
Do I know god when I dream?
May then my name die with me.
That which lives is forever praiseworthy,
for they, knowing not, provide life in death.
Dear the wheat and rye under the stars:
serene; sustained and sustaining.
Dear, also, the tree that was felled
which offers heat and warmth in fire.
What praise we give we give by consuming,
what gifts we give we give in death,
what lives we lead we lead in memory,
and the end of memory lies beneath the roots.
May one day death itself not die?
Should we rejoice in the end of endings?
What is the correct thing to hope for?
I do not know, I do not know.
To pray for the end of endings
is to pray for the end of memory.
Should we forget the lives we lead?
Should we forget the names of the dead?
Should we forget the wheat, the rye, the tree?
Perhaps this, too, is meaningless.</div>
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</article>
<footer>
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<p>Page generated on 2020-06-17</p>
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