Words have their own god, and it walks
its land, a kingdom, whose boundary forms
a spread-out noose, of fiberglass.
The lot who live on them is doomed,
like a banyan tree, whose roots are
too densely interlocked to let in the dirt
from the previous life, and whose crown is
too umbrageous for the daylight.
But the winking stars and inconstant moon
can easily procure, being in the dark.
The savage god of words has deprived the word-eaters
of the right to stand on their feet, for he who walks about
cannot bear the sight of walking thinkers.
They would appear too like incarnated ghosts.
So they are condemned to squat down, chewing for the juice,
and their crotches and neck grow mosses,
verdant and lowly virile,
but they cannot afford to concentrate on love or hatred.
will never become their death wishes; they are parasites
to keep them itchy
so that they have to scratch. This
makes them feel for the bodies they are living in
and know the place to put up themselves,
for the time being.
They do excrete, like a duck that is swallowing a big clam,
making ugly sounds; but if there are pearls,
they are left behind its the night soil.
Two-legged animals will not see during night.
March 14, 2008