Thursday, March 12, 2009


Listen to your tongue, inventing its own sound
it attaches electric to the hinges in my mouth
I allow myself to be plowed, throat thick with soil
promises dig out with purpose, they use both hands
and break on you, claim themselves false.
Unhinged I swim, up to my eyes in the end

Earth bleeds it’s stones free marking the end:
Of tounges, inventing sound
Of authenticity, now shielded in false
Of more than one option for the use of the mouth
Of what was, of unbroken hands.
Empty harvest, a rocky dead soil

Blurring between true and false
I move to understand the soil:
toungless, the same sounds move the mouth.
The earth will begins what it knows not to end
Her mouths make same blank sounds.
Broken and constant, yet we have shadows of hands

And yet in the shadow of themselves, hands
Begin to rebuild, rebuke the falseness
That came before, the false sounds
Like the past again, rain hits the soil
And begins to sprout, unending,
Growing with tongue with teeth, with mouth

Free! The tounge dances in the mouth
The earth fills with life (clapping of hands)
Forgetting the definition of the end
The definition of false
Whole, I bless the garden, the soil
Grows huge flowers of soft sounds.

If my mouth calls her false
If my hands work her soil
Let us all sound her end.

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