There was a stigma attached to it like a barnacle, a pervading senselessness and defeat, a lack of balance, the responsibility of pretend success and a buried personal failure, the skeletons that move about beneath the ground in canal or cave systems. the poetry that does not come unless force unwillingly and the veins under my eyes bulging with focus due to the pages and ages of reading resources I scour through to try to get to the point. The point of all. The information is irrelevant. I must remember that. There is logic to it all on a basic level. If Linguistics is not my jam I will still have to excel otherwise major points lost and they would not hire me anywhere. I'd be the blunt end rifle of the joke guns, the fake plastic watering cans and crying old widows in the windows, the fruit basket jokes, the serious jokes that no one is clever enough to laugh at, the blank stares and an incessant pencil tapping, I must have felt like a dark brooding rain cloud in every sense of it, waiting for a bus that doesn't come, that bus is a nitrous gas happiness when pulling teeth, throughout historical records...
the point is to make connections in the mind that have previously been dead ends. connect to synapses and let them speak through their intricate electrical wiring. who cares if I can't describe to you how this works anymore? I once knew. I once knew all about ancient egyptian artifacts. I knew all kinds of things. They are buried out there in my field mind. that illusive elysian field where worms crawl around underneath and everyone lapses with me when I lapse and nothing ever comes of it, those open mic poet trees, and the cord tightening around my throat. my larynx! the glottal stops, a fever of the belly laugh and the resonance chambers to produce certain sounds, it is all a repetition and a harrowing challenge, may the best man win.
