Oh what brilliant conceits hide in your semi-colon!
You must login to vote
You talk of ra-tata, rata-rata-rata, some dada for change,
a change, of pace, Or place, of country,
as if being born brown is of no consequence,
You talk of beats and chimes,
Of dimes and times, and rhymes of
Them poets birthing 'nouns-profound',
You talk of ages and aging,
of merlots announcing ooh-so-ghoulish mistakes
of cognates and punctuation,
Oh, you talk of breeding the necessary meters,
As if a pandemic of kitsch is inherently evil,
as if being brown is never to say goodbye,
You talk of such isms, them -illian terms,
Dropping names like didactics as if you are
ensconced on the shoulders of those you consider mighty:
the vulgar, the bold, the published,
What niceties we must
impute on paper.
But what of a motherless child
Orphaned only by distance?
What of bastards on the street
whose only real relevance
is a dialogue based on hunger?
What of wails and grunts
And contractual divides
demanding daily wages?
I do not claim these be the real sighs,
But surely, they are real.
There are words that do not speak
And spaces that leap off pages.
These are the unprinted ones, kaibigan.
Let us not hide under the comforts
of the proven;
Let gimmicks be gimmicks and polemics be so.