Don’t ask me what a metaphor’s for.
I couldn’t tell you, not without looping back
or leading you to mirrored mirrors—
Well, there I go again,
symbolizing symbols with more symbols.
I’ve thought of finding the root, the source.
Just can’t do it.
The more I try, the more I’m moored,
rooted to the source of my thoughts.
The thing is,
I suspect there’s something hidden,
something entrenched in the folds of self-reference.
Is it Literature? Art?
The Meaning of Life (as espoused by self-help books)?
I’m just fermenting meta- (meta-) metaphors.
For the longest time, I used to dismiss the arts.
Allusions and other ‘devices’ were too effete
for my taste.
Cold and crunchy formulas
held more meaning in their wrapped rigor
than fleet wit or staccato stanzas.
I know better now.
Both artists and scientists are trying to answer questions—
questions to which we can’t know the answers
or even the actual questions.
It’s a sympatric search for stasis
(that sensation of soft understanding).
They reach for senseless knowledge
and meld it in a synesthetic cacophony
of sweat-dropped beats and slimshod scuffs.