It is 10PM here. My boys (children, not frat house friends) are asleep. This is a poem about words, as can be presumed by the title, and maybe the way that our decisions are rendered comes bathed in the light of words contextualized by our own cluttered and confused noodles. It is all very Chomsky and boring but it is a poem. As promised.
Avarice spiced like licorice, I told her.
And she explained that I only say that
Cause they look the same.
Others may compare it to an orange rind.
And even others the smell after rain.
But when I think of avarice I think of licorice.
But also birds.
But maybe I like you cause your name
Can be beautifully transfixed into,
an impression in the back of darkened Polaroid,
the word nude.
You drip of sexuality but only because we think
Of sexuality in a dripping manner.
The mixture of fluids and gravity
And she smiled saying, yes,
Yes, that is sex.
And she reveled in my name
And how it can be jumbled into rice.
Like the ending of avarice and licorice, I say.
She loves rice, white rice, the boring rice.
And she loves me.
And somehow the world comes together
With linguistics being the common bond,
That forges villagers to villainy,
Lunatics to sublunary fools like us.
A quaint quantum atom to its ever-faithful brother.
And oh the world we would have if we’d spoke another language.
Can you even imagine that?
I cannot, I said.