The Language's Last Stand

I have run out of things to say. I constantly search for the proper way to tell you all of these things, these swelling things that sit so deeply in my chest, but the end of every journey is the same. My tongue goes numb, paralyzed by the overwhelming ardor that radiates, practically poisons all of its surrounding neighbors. I am reduced to my most primitive state, grunting or "mm"-ing in a last, desperate attempt at making you understand.

I know that I am a jumble of letters, of words, of failed attempts at relaying what's inside of me. Tangled and interwoven, I have come to accept that there is simply no hope at making me orderly again. Thoughts interrupt other thoughts. Feelings dissect other feelings. I am surrounded by the seemingly hollow cross-sections of pieces belonging to a larger whole that I can no longer locate.

You make my skin want to break free from my body, wanting to leap and run and feel the wind through all of its pores. You make me want to sit in the sunlight, cocooned in the whispered secrets of the breeze. You make me want to drown in the ecstasy that is Life, leaving no joy unknown and no love untouched.

Oh, but how can I say these things to you?

How could I possibly find the words, the ways to manifest and create a concrete thing out of nothing more than the stuff that kissing-in-the-rains are made of?

I echo the sonnets and odes and words far more poetic than these in my reverberating chorus:

I

I love

I love you

Oh, how I love you so.

His Last(?) Train Ride

the fluorescent yellow combined

with the constant swaying of the tracks

make it difficult to memorize

anything,

let alone decipher each

verticalhorizontaldiagonal line

that comes together to create

something called

"a sentence."

but he's run out of time.

it is his final journey

in this aluminum-and-steel sarcophagus.

success is promising,

failure is threatening.

he doesn't have room

for ambiguity.

words slither out of his lips

like a letterchain-snake,

falling silently to the muddied

ground, whooshing to

nothing more

than a whisper

as they collide.

the voice of a god beckons

through the wordgrater o'erhead.

packed and put away,

he commends himself,

tests himself,

prepares himself,

stands,

and exits.

The Girdle of History

the chattering of obedient silverware

married with the hushed and quiet

fadings of laughter and lifesharings

come scampering down this

horrendously-pattered carpet,

speeding through treads created by

the boots of workers

(suspiciously like servants)

and the heels of high-brow ladies who are

wrapped up in the furs of once-alive creatures.

the comings and goings of luggage carts

and thousands of stories

are embedded into each frayed thread

(well, the reds and beiges, at least,

but perhaps not the sea-foam).

the cheap perfume aroma of far-off edibles

invade each nostril,

masking the faint odor of history

until i cannot remember who was here last

and i am once again distracted by a

thunderous commotion,

trailing behind its owner like a curious puppy on a leash.

the flesh-colored wallpaper is encrusted with

songs and tunes from who-knows-when,

like a meticulously baked pie,

drowned by the clamor of present patrons.

how i wish i could breach every layer and

play each soundtrack against the

delicate needle of a phonograph.

the padded thud of a boot against the carpet

forces images of tasseled dresses and feather boas

from the depths of my cluttered crown,

reminding me that we will all someday be

the soundwaves captured in these walls,

waiting for the day someone will set us free.

Answering the Unanswerable

the prospect of

articulation seems

impossible

when confronted with

an inquiry

no lexicon

could ever hope to

expound.