Words, Words, Words
"I transmit, I do not originate." Kung Fu Tzu
Words are dwarves,
kobolds working the mine of the spirit
digging for rhymes,
undermining the mountain soul
for the ore of reason.
Like ticks
words crawl their itch
round the interior of the skull.
Words are phrenologists
mapping their inch
of Prester John's kingdom
on the inside of the dome,
decorating the infinite incognito
with ikons and chimeras
in mosiac and gilt.
Words are dentists
working from within
this celestial gazebo
to correct my rhetorical overbite.
We are drilling, Father William,
we are drilling
for your slings and arrows, for fardels,
contumely, and a quietus,
we are drilling
for the layer of extinct metaphors
compressed to combustable coal.
When we reach that undiscovered country
we'll drop our charges
and yell: "Smoke in the hole!"
We’ll bend with the remover to remove,
and bear it out,
even to the edge of doom.
Dana Pattillo
