THE TOWERING MAN

The towering man stood and sat. He cursed and he speculated, he smiled and he mumbled. I had a mouth full of language and letters, the fabric of the ladle of the man. He spat out forces and I sucked in myths and legends without end. My tongue slapped at the beginning time, to days when demons and angels loved with a passion and sang with throats of silver and amethyst. My lips cascaded over the ending time, when men screamed and screeched, finger-clawing fate, touching the stars with broken wings, only to see cosmic comets with tails of asphalt and spector.

Who is the prophetic poet, why does he gird his loins without slumber? Words can be a stutter in the water, a slide in the mud, but language...language is the fountain, the font, and the well. Open your throat and roar in ascension, splutter with tension and vermeer. Days are still long and words can be humble, but the leech of the theme is always the fall of language and letters from open mouths and tensile throats...and that, that is where we stand, that is where we kneel, that is where we suck and spew. That is where we make our mends and tell the story of our life, on our knees and without hesitation.