This Sour Tongue of Mine.

[Guest guest]

Sat Nam,

 

These words cough themselves up and out of my chest- leaping into the

outside echo chamber that is this home. None can hear me here- with

their cotton earplug containment so well defined in the puppeteer jaw

strings that hang from those clockwork lips. I sink and sorrow the

silence through the walls- waiting in closed quarantine for some ear

to catch drift of my downwind stanzas- none to be seen, none that can

hear.

 

The marksmen of my vocabulary are sleeping fully pronounced Zs into

the atmospheric density, marking the musical notes with dusty dreams

that might have leaked from my palms. Those palms that sweat songs,

songs that stand up and shout " L'oreille des dieux seuls, j'entends

votre incantation venir par la fenêtre! " . Shooting arrows all the

while into that transient bulls eye of readers- waiting for one

eternal to hear my unheard.

 

This sour tongue is tired and sore in this temple, with the solid

amplification shattering in patterns that regenerate in repetitions,

the walls alone know the secret poetry that is recited within the DNA

of this vocal body. Alone it seeks a flower to pollen, for long is

sought the scent of that spring ( the spring that brings forth what

has appeared to have died). Yea my tongue is as a seed waiting in the

soil for the ripe conditions of thirsty spring ears to fall upon the

ground.

 

Still I endure the cold, the conquering wind, the deafening silence

that possesses my notes that sore the morning song. I wait with hands

placed in this mudra or that, posing here as an Angel in flight and

sitting there as a Yogi in lotus, forever singing that song that waits

to be heard. For in truth I know that singers, audience, angels and

yogis are all just the same- one being in this forever dance, this

eternal song.

 

-Matthew Kurtis Taylor.

 

Thank you for reading,

Namaste.