Wednesday, December 5, 2007

By Any Other Name

Call a rose an aardvark, and I'd disembark.
Language is the cursed allurement to which
nobody is not addicted: unpredictable

mad chaos would ensue were I to mix up
other names with you. Unpredictable,
that is, until we came agreeably to terms,

in which case everything would germinate
again precisely as it always does when it is
finally and flatly said: a whiff of 'live' is kept

within the dead confines of definition (maybe),
but your labels better make their peace
with jail, because no word escapes it. We are

what we speak: availing the amorphous with
a weak show of effrontery: we bunt the ball
and barely reach the pitcher: make him catch

the puny batted blow and call it yes or no.
Every syllable I’m using now is suspect: watch
the alphabet! It’s out to get you badly into debt.


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