the gods xviii by Donald Kuspit



silence is the crime

                                    of their consciousness,

killing meaning

                             with its immensity.

they make themselves known

                                                         through outworn miracles

bespeaking the freshness

                                                 of their inevitability.

we feel their invisibility

       when we outlast our words,

feeding on themselves

       when there is no world

left to feed on,

               and the sundial no longer

casts a shadow.


                              words are the leavings of life,

labored crumbs of consciousness

                                                                 easily scattered

by the unconscious,

               but the gods are the remains

of death,

                visible when there is nothing left

to remember,

                         only the ecstasy of enigma

when their light

                             shines in every corner of our blindness,

outlasting the everlasting void

         for a lingering moment,

humbling us with the purity

                that restores innocence

of vision

                when there is nothing left to envision.   





2005-2009 Per Contra: The International Journal of the Arts, Literature and Ideas

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Donald Kuspit