November in My Soul

Looming,  a word, a word I say, not just any word, this word in particular for the thing I name, am naming, what I do and what I am doing not the same thing, time, tense, aspect.

Things in themselves only things, nameless things, how do we hold onto to our things, what do our things impose on us, a gravity proportionate, no? Yes, things are until we do not.

Name. As it has been called. This thing, a thing, what thing, what about this thing? An act of naming gone awry.

I would like it to mean something, mean everything–nothing can mean everything, no one can be everyone, who can be anyone–we love to say that anyone can be someone–how awfully artful of us, no? It means nothing? What is in a name? I recall something about roses and dog shit, something I read somewhere, some-when.

To name or not to name, I would like to say is the question, was the question for sure for Adam. No thing ever but the thing in itself. Each itself a thing without a word. No more.

I have to reiterate for you that if there is no one in the woods to hear the tree fall, then the tree does not make a sound. Sound is made in the ear. Yes, we have been calling dog shit a rose for so long that we have nothing but contempt for roses because they do not smell like shit.

Call me Adam.


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