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WORDS
At first, you learn to whisper,
tuck chin down,
speak so softly they won't notice,
won't poke fun and ask,
"So. Where you going?
The Speech Pafologist?
And you'll be back at free o'clock?"
You bite your tongue
because language is not about communication,
its about enunciation:
dipthongs,fricatives,gutturals,nasals,sibilants,aspirates,PLOSIVES, SONANTS,
DENTALS, AND GLOTTAL STOPS.
Unable to master
the fine motor skill of placing tongue just below the two front teef
and changing,
free to three,
Fursday to Thursday,
and teef to teeth.
Teachers note how quiet you've become.
You note how whistling is impossible
and bubble gum a misnomer.
You memorize tongue twisters,
"Theosophus Thistler sailed three thousand miles to the sea."
The last thing you want to be is different,
a squeaky wheel,
a throbbing thumb.
When they fix the "dental anomaly," a "sibilant anomaly" pops up.
An "Es" becomes awash in spray and misplaced tongue,
"Say it, don't spray it."
"Thanks, I needed a shower."
You're quiet now, not a problem student.
Gone is "Motor Mouth"
replaced with, "He's so introverted.
It may be why he has trouble making friends."
You measure every word,
develop a precision,
a brevity some describe as blunt-even mean.
Language is not about diplomacy its about communication,
shutting people up so they won't ramble on
and on
past the point of understanding.
Social situations become unbearable.
Speeches become feats of brute force,
mind over body,
the fight instinct on full blast
and pummeling them with
words -- biting and abrasive.
Words -- abrasive and offensive.
Words -- offensive and abused.
Words -- abused and sarcastic.
Words -- sarcastic and sincere.
Words -- sincere and memorized.
Words -- memorized and mumbled.
Words -- mumbled and whispered.
Words become a poem.
The poem becomes a poet;
a messenger of Words.
Suspicious Minds
Do you, yes you, remember the
day Elvis Presley passed away?
In the summer of nineteen seventy-
seven, no one had suspicious
minds.
A manager, for Lolo Hot
Springs RV Camp and Resort, Dad
tracked down jobs for me: a movie
and T.V. watching suburban
skater.
Lolo Hot Springs was mostly rock
and streams and trees and empty space,
so he bought a pellet gun. With
it, I was to track down Sturnus
Vulgaris
Common Starlings are lone black birds
with short tails, pointed wings, long bills,
and when spotted, liquidate them.
Starlings move on other's nests, eat
the unhatched, then
starlings force the original
occupants away. I tracked down
birds with borrowed binoculars,
and when I thought I'd spotted one,
pumped the pellet gun and took it out.
Behind the sights, at twelve years old,
Crows (pupp!) looked like Starlings,
Blue Jays (pupp!) looked like
Starlings, even Magpies(pupp!) looked
like Starlings, and my aim was al-
ways true.
On rounds, one day, you borrowed
me a birding book, so I'd stop
killing Crows by mistake, and you
confirmed my first success. Fully
grown now, I
do not remember your name, the
color of your Chevy van, the
breed of your two dogs, even what
you did for my father, your boss.
One day you (a
passerine bird), a lone man with
black hair that winged out beneath your
baseball cap, moved in. Instantly,
you homed in. And I never thought
it
strange. And father never thought it
strange. And mother never thought it
strange. On the day that Elvis died,
we drove to the nearest drive-in.
Halfway
through the X-rated, non-Disney
Pinnochio, you suggested
we move to the back of the van.
Pull the pillows up around us.
The bed is
really comfortable. The dogs
won't mind. I could rub your back. And,
I could rub your back better if
you took off your shorts, And, Could I
touch you there?And,
Does that feel good?And, This won't hurt
a bit. And, and, and, and it all
happened so fast. As the X-
rated Alice in Wonderland
fin-
ished, I'd had enough. Why can't you
see, what you're doing to me, when
you don't believe a word I say?
You drove. I just sat there. You cawed,
Don't you
want me to finish? It'll feel
really good. I promise. I was
not the one who should've known when
to say, "No." I was a young kid
12 years old.
On the day Elvis snorted too
much cocaine, ate too many bar-
biturates and died on his bath-
room floor, I sighted in on you
and I shot back.
Do you, yes you, remember the
day Elvis Presley passed away?
Don McIver lives in Albuquerque, NM. August, 2003.
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