---

AGAIN I FOYER TOWARD WRITE COME, YOU MIGHT SAY

Rare children who develop an entire language of their own

Exceptional kids that grow whole tongues by themselves

Uncommon babies who originate complete dictionaries in isolation

Special youngsters that nurture all words the same

Remarkable minors who raise an exhaustive lyric on their lonesome

Outstanding juveniles that enhance lingo through the personal

Unparalleled adolescents who patch up great blankets of dialect

Bizarre offspring that scavenge an unbroken vocabulary from the dead

Notable sprouts who formulate ceaseless monologues of their individuality

Alternative, divisive progenies preparing to wed their textual companions

Prominent striplings that back talk a glossary to their teachers

Incomprehensible toddlers who mouth off the phrasebook of our ancestors

Self-made, singular infants flourishing in the garden of their own jargon

Funny kiddies prospering in a bed of declarative idioms

Outlandish spring chickens dancing through terms and propagandas

Full-feathered volunteers diving into the hell of a maxim

I desires be language as simple as necessary

THE TABLE, THE HAMMER, THE PSYCHIC

Usually he leans on the table enough to tip it. I’m studying. My computer! I swallow as I catch it, parallel it. She sees to the other side meanwhile like a voyeur while meaning nothing. In the loud evening, her twin has a spatula. He’s using it like a hammer, that’s evening. Fish! He’s flipping the table with his hammer, meanwhile the psychic locks eyes with the wall and goes a mean while beyond.

---