He believes language is no leash on the mind,
more like an unbroken stallion, wild-eyed.
A lover and a bolt of lightning, an unsheathed sword,
through which even the unspeakable takes on the world.
From the first pale flicker of dawn on his lids
to the darkened hush where delirious dreams play,
his mind fills with shining, ferocious floods.
To write is to net those tides in syllables,
to snare the storm, to press the untouchable,
to wound silence, to smile at the need for exactitude
and weave invisible threads into the world’s cloth.
He writes to make the moment stand still,
to chase beauty through a retreating misty veil,
to translate pulse and chaos into ink.
And –
if one soul; one, anywhere
hears a heartbeat in his words and says,
“Yes. I get that,”
then the turning wheel of time stops dead.
And he has spoken not into the void
but into the living heart of a being.
Words are not ink and air, but communion
a flame flung from skull to skull,
a bridge of breath across the chasm.
That is the magic served:
language in its full, fierce bloom
miraculous, muscular, aflame.
.
So, why the tongue’s raw thunder,
the holy profanity of outrage?
Why? Because velvet words alone
can’t pierce the hide of a numbed republic.
Because the ceaseless scroll of noise,
the pundits foaming their catechisms,
the empire’s narcotic drip of comfort
have deafened the ear of wonder.
So he lifts a sledgehammer of syllables,
swings it with righteous, singing rage,
and lets the curses toll like bells of reckoning
against the temples of the distracted and the damned.
This is his vow:
to write as hymn and holler,
as symphony and street-fight,
to lace the sublime with the savage
until the sleepwalkers startle awake.
For only then, in that stunned hush after thunder,
can the fragile ember of meaning catch,
and blaze – yes, blaze into understanding.
