Here is the draft of a poem to ring in the new year.  It is by no means finished, so constructive criticism (particularly from philosophically-inclined folks) is, as always, most welcome.



The silken face on the hem of a chartreuse gown,

I am not

The alloy flecks on a bulbous, saffron ornament,

I am not.

The festooned frame on a realist portrait,

I am not.




I am a word thumbing the earth,

a reed slicing clay.

I am earth and clay,

clay that is clay-and-not-clay,

earth that is earth-and-not-earth


The medium is the message,

message that is


signifier which lets the signified slip into itself.



The clay tablet furrows its brow:


Why do you darken my counsel,

saying that I am an expression

without content?


Brace yourself like a somatic being –

I will question,

you will answer


You press against my body,

calling me a bearer

of meaning


You impregnate me with wetted sticks,

saying I am a vessel

of speech


as though this thought bloating my belly

were not knitted into me,

swelling my uterus,

feeding off my flesh and blood,

crafting my being,

and yielding itself to be crafted


Why do you darken my counsel,

saying that I am parergon,

bisected from the work itself?


You call me unfaithful,

accusing me of semblance,

though it is you who have called for the

severing of physis and tekhne


Do I not bear you within myself?

Am I not called by your name?



Do you not know that there is only

the realm of the Real,

and that nothing exists