The poem is a true statement at best. Of whatever expressed and anything but beyond the meaning, even when the words don't make sense. There is the meaning system at play, as it was left on. The machine is soft, like an organ feeling it's way down to earth from the ethereal chaos of ideas; that place that we imagine – we craft and play there. Consistent with this trend the poem is there, in the abstract, but tries to reach the land never reaching quite there, the corporeal, the charts being at best symbolic representations of the terrain.
Trues statement that it is trying to get there knowing its place and condition hopelessly going toward an origo that can't be reached, the nothing in the center cannot be probed with existing things. That there nothing is not touched by our presence here. Let me tell you, you can cry and call all you can but what you get is something rather than nothing because the world is still there; flaming glaring place screaming at your nerve endings. Ready to tug you in and fold into the earth.
But here you are facing momentary me that existed here in front of the same words as they happened. Like they stay on paper, we stay as happened. What bliss if you can adhere to this! You know you was there as I was. And we go further having this at least together, the parts to make the particular, that specialty we expressed toward the random radiating singularity.