I moulder here in mute repose, attuned to words themselves,
Apart from what they had been meant to mean. Let's face it;
Meaning's overrated. Nowhere in the universe can one see
Any sign of purpose. Maybe there's a god out there, but, at
Best, it's elusive. At worst, it's a cop created in a palace by
A monarch bent on keeping peasants tending crops their
Betters get to sell. I turn from meaning, from the cardinal
Associations of these playthings I put into poems, to their
Tones, their sounds alone. I hear a ringing in the cosmos.
Don't search for a point to it. It's music made of useless
Words. That's all I can provide.