t h e m a n m a d e o f w o r d s
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: