Ibiza

There are 291,500 entries in the Oxford English Dictionary but still not enough to express how I feel. So I am left citing sources of others pushing against language: Children are dumb to say how hot the day is,/ How hot the scent is of the summer rose, or There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses, or Madame Bovary straining against society represented by its poor vocabulary for her esprit. I am stringing together strange phrases and fragments of other people's thoughts. Days like this I am ripe for deconstruction. No sleep from physics finaling Friday I become rhizomatic. Cannot think one word without pulling the whole weight of the chain of signifiers behind me. I haul language uphill like a Sisyphus. Each sound entails other images, connotations, old references until the rock is too big to carry. Conversation is unwieldly with the attempt to communicate everything I consist of. There is no thought of first date without all Milton's firsts, First Disobedience in the first line, first epic poem not in rhyme, first poet present at the creation of the world, as he preposterously claims. Or the fact that something always comes first for someone, relativity says there is no real simultaneity. I get caught up in my webs, The Cool Web. Try to trace each image radially outwards until forget to return to a center, an Anecdote of the Jar, an Eiffel Tower. Schrodinger cats birth Shrodinger kittens who call up Calico and trail off into Spring Street, or alternately continue into entangled particles of matter and antimatter who metaphorically converge on home. Food is forgotten for talk. Until after exhausting all syllables in English, I am left silent across a table, only articulate eyes.