The Poet, child of some other dimension’s Immensity, will
speak as the last living being, into a Void which will of its own
accord thence immediately come fully to life, having totally &
irretrievably forgotten itself. When the World awakens, all
it will have to guide it as to its own identity & possible conduct
will be what the Poet has just spoken, which is already fading
on the instant. The World cocks in every leaf as the Poet stands
there, silent. Having spoken, the Poet cocks to all that has
simultaneously and spontaneously returned. There is a moment
of August yearning as the World races with every ear to retrieve
the Poet’s every echo. Blank as the grave, the Poet waits this
moment thru. If the Poet has spoken a single lie, the Poet is
going to hear it again, very soon. It is at this moment that the
silence ends. The pristine World talks back & the Poet is free
to go mad again, waiting anew for the death of the World, when
next the Poet will be permitted to speak.
The Poet has no name. Only poets with Names have names.
The Poet only has words. At the beginning of the trick called Time,
the order of the Poet’s words is incontestably speedy & profound,
making no sense at all. In the beginning, only the World makes
sense, for the World is alive, & the Poet is mad. When madness
grows livid, the Poet commences to unravel the Mystery of
Order. The Mystery of Order is what the World will at that very
moment call Form, the Center. That said center cannot hold will
become increasingly apparent to the World, even as it becomes
simultaneously apparent to the Poet that there is Order to Words.
As the reversal works inevitably down, Time, that Trick, writhes
like the Serpent. The Poet becomes the pre-eminent Snake
Charmer of the Age & the World forgets the Poet’s madness,
then forgets the Poet is even there. The Snake sucks itself:
that's its only job. For the first time, the laughter of the Poet
is sane, & touched with malice. The Poet knows the Snake is
turning into a maggot. The World is dying.
Just before the World sleeps again, the Poet goes walking.
Wherever the Poet is when the World becomes Void again, it is
from there the Poet will speak. The Last Place, & the Place of
the Last Profession. All local poets will be gone, none will be
about even to call the name Poet, & it is then that the Last
Words will begin . . .