Click Page 1 of Feature Poet
The Unspoken Word
There is no talking! This is dumb piece
of paper covered with blotto stains
grease lips all over it.
Can the can't.
Eat the words.
The core is language.
Eat that, too!
Once upon a tiny little once.
But often, more than likely. What happens is this:
The truth is in the telling, the tasting.
Corrupt the pipeline.
Art and Industry swagger down the aisle, hand in
I have been asked to speak to you
but my tongue
has another opinion.
Right is wrong.
Whenever her fingers slide into the machine, Africa winces with pain.
Terror and treachery make fine breakfast.
As I was saying towards end of line, prose.
Taste a fat chunk o' prose. Is all prose, baked, wilted. Except rose.
Freedom is pregnant with democracy's bastard, all lies. The poor cannot get to sleep.
Steady goes the junk food.
The homeless congregate for more than warmth.
Slow reptilian devolution. Music is bought and silence is the price. Meanwhile, there is
no meanwhile. This is not the end. This is.
Will respond more fully when moon rises and I can read the book