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--- D A V I D   F L O Y D

is tired of all the naysayers, theorists, and rapscallions who claim words have no meaning. He knows he is the literal embodiment of locution, the watchdog of shibboleths, conundrums, agency, and curses. His syllables resist scansion. There are certain poets he'd like to see eat their own words-- he'd heat up a bowl of alphabet soup for them, serve it with an obscene measure of cayenne pepper, let them lick their residual chops. Even when clichés creep up on him-- "a man of words and not of deeds is like a garden full of weeds"-- he stays put in the cage he's been put in, fingers bits of straw, leans more toward capaciousness. The letters in his head run to other letters, turn into words, definitions he'll keep to himself when the runes of his bones get soft: aurora borealis willow warblers solace

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