When I touch the spinning
Wood with sharpened steel
It speaks! Foot flies
On the petal; my head, or this room
Like the belly of a fiddle
The spindle reaches out to
Form the axis of a wheel
On which the stars are inscribed
And spinning eons on.
The rim of that wheel rubs
A cord of gut, stretched taunt
To the throat
Of the hanged man, who sings.
What he sees; the present, the future,
And the past, but inverted
And no way to
Cipher which is which.
A, E, I, O, U – vowels, yes and words,
You didn’t think of
Come wobbling down the songline
Like quivering blobs of jelly.
Sentence, cause like I said
There’s nothing certain. Even
The drone of the vibrating string
Could be anything, or cease suddenly –
So that you can’t hook them end to end
Anymore, the things inside the blobs of
Duration I mean, being sung by the hung
Man, who’s dangling,
Suspended by his feet,
Naked and singing
Of what was, is, and will be,
On the axis of that tree ~ he has
A density shaving in his head ~ is that a sentence?
(To let understanding stop at what cannot be understood is a high attainment. Those who cannot do it will be destroyed on the lathe of heaven.(知止乎其所不能知，至矣。若有不即是者，天鈞敗之。)((a faulty translation from the Tao))