there have been no tangible words.
They are the business end of communication;
what matters is left to
grunts, waves, and sighs. Palate, lips, and mouth
form the same syllables in an endless, salivating cycle, so
we have grown too used to words.
How, with that wet, fleshy shaping of air,
to note that today is not like yesterday -
something fundamental (is) changing?
I have always been foothills. I am becoming granite, a mountain, an obstacle. You can see it in my shoulder blades coming to a fine point. There are only certain elevations up to which I can tolerate growth. Also, there is some danger of falling rocks to the unwary traveler. Cliffs are dangerous places, rugged terrain like the cleft between prose and verse. There is the distinct possibility of being crushed.
If I could, I would speak only to the deaf
because words would be felt not heard
which is what they've always striven for: to be a rumbling, a vibration,
some pre-auditory experience.
Consonants choke meaning. A feeling is not something you can wrap your tongue around.
It comes first
come before polemics.
Let's be earthquakes on demand,
have our rumblings charted,
leave chasms for our legacy.
If I ripped open the earth, I think it would understand.