cluttering clattering nattering
is it second nature (or third)
to come around close to the word
any good word, a poeming word,
with tweezers and scalpel---
no no put those away, reductionists and poets
are mortal frenemies! No tools allowed
against the words.
iii. breaking out
instead, poets groom the words, pet their plumes
praise them and gaze lovingly. we don't dissect;
expand outward in gyres of applause and appreciation
we are special colored grow lights to the seeds of language
we bust out the walls of word labs, we are the language liberation front
don't jail these beauties in cages, or locked in verse forms as prisons of the ages.
we melt the keys into ladders and escape
into wildernesses of sound. we dream the dreams of the unborn (words).
we are utterly pangyric (on the point of dance moves)
in ululating praiseforms. kudos to the anatomy of ovation,
which we display to teach everyone how a rib (noun) connected by ligaments (adjectives)
comes to motion (verbs).
We frolic in poet reveries, flocks of flattery
and cheer. Our only instruments are pencils,
which, yes, some do carry in pocket protectors, but only
the sacred word, the all-gorgeous pencil lead -
inscriber and maker of the most mighty, praiseworthy, noteworthy
notes. So this we share with our frenemies, the fashion of pocket protectors.
All other semblance stops there.