underground ink

I am prepared..

For your gnawing, your needing, the way that you feed me. 

Provoke me please.

Emblazon my page with your words. Fill me with something disturbed.

Consider this quote: “Language is the armory of the human mind, and at once contains the trophies of its past and the weapons of its future conquests.”

The assumption can be made that language resides in the mind awaiting use. To make the rest of the quote clear, it must be deconstructed. The 15th century definition of armory refers to a place where arms are not stored, but manufactured, implying that language and its use is a creative process. The word trophy comes from trope, meaning “a figure of speech”; trophy means “a spoil or prize of war” from Middle French; together, trophy means a figurative prize; if language is a prize of war from the past, it must be an indestructible unit of value.

The word weapon comes from Germanic roots, most likely from the West Germanic tribes who invaded England in the 5th century AD, and who the Romans borrowed the word from to replace bellum (Latin for war, uncomfortably associated with beauty). Because the West Germanic tribes loved a great warrior, words relating to war infiltrated their culture (i.e. the word “wig”, like Wiglaf from Beowulf; incidentally, Beowulf is one of the earliest written pieces of the English language).

Language as a weapon can therefore:

conquer, meaning “defeat, or vanquish” from Old French

OR

conquer, meaning “procure by effort” from Latin

Therefore, language can be used as a weapon of mass destruction (subjugating other countries of non-native speakers) or elevate an object, person (Eliza Doolitle), etc..

In case you’ve lost track, that is: Language is a manufactured but indestructable unit of high value, with the power to destroy or exalt the culture and society of its native speakers, as well as the culture and society of surrounding non-native speakers.

brother, silence and hear: our raw cries translated into little words. a robotic hand distorting our breath, musical but inaccurate. what did we expect, trying to ‘speak’ in such an existence based on patterns, repetition, organization, mathematics, geometry sacred, logical, infinite, but how it stifles our HUMANITY.  unravel this pattern, brother i need your skilled hands, unwrap the equation, make everything one: my sharp yells, my deep sighs, learn my language. bear with my cry, decipher it backwards it leads to my heart (out of alignment, far from the universe’s mystic logic.) had i not been thus intercepted, my sound would echo, earth would know me, would certainly wail back.  only then will we begin to realize the humility and honor of the human condition something like: shaking on the mountain, eyes burning, howling at the moon.

I. My love for you burns like the jalapenos i ate straight and dry on an empty stomach or maybe more like the juice i rubbed into my eye, me wailing fit to die, you laughing fit to cry.

II. Some late morning I am tickled pink and somewhat terrified of your sober and  someways twisting fists.

III. She woke up with his hands around her neck: he dreamt of protecting her.

this is a poem about the way your mouth opens in a dogsmile, all seething teeth, comical with heavy breathing. this is a poem about the sounds our bodies make in the heat, sticking and pulling again and again.

this is not a poem about your blue eyes this is no fucking sonnet, no valentine’s day surprise, this is a poem about the spreading of my thighs, the sanctity of my sighs, a hundred feeble tries, the buzzed, undone flies.

these jackals aren't after your body, your hot, tight, good godly body. they aren't looking to drink you, they aren't looking to make you wet, or lick you through, or chew your tongue.

no one is trying to stick it deep. no one is trying to come clean. devils aren't flying above your bed, screeching about your mother in hell, or lighting you up, or damning you down.

you are smellable. tellable. repellable, infallible. the man at your feet knows what you can do. the bulb on the table can shine out or shut off, but you are on. you are on; you are always on.

you know what things hurt.  you know the tickle of the nine tails,  the soft slip of the razor. you can feel the hands around your neck and love them because it is not punishment.

all that you looked for in god or in family could not compare.  feathers in your thighs and the skin you never felt; you are not ashamed.        you are at peace.