I Wanted to Speak Tamil, but I Can't Speak Swahili, so I Spoke
a language that did not exist. I spoke my own language.
All night we sat on a bench in the train station
where they don’t sell tickets to our harem in
It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself for letting the ants
build their Orwellian and Aristotelian metropolis above our heads.
We deserve it. Yet we still stick our tongues at the black clouds
for their monosemy conclusion when the moon plays checkers
in our eyes. Khalil Gibran was right, you said. So was
Barry Manilow. So is the cello I left singing Cantonese by the
opaque purple sea. Listen to me, we can’t go on waiting
for a train from
We can’t go on waiting for him. Listen to me, we have to leave
language while we still can, before the next train comes and takes
away our silence. Listen to me, listen, there is a bird-house
there is a bird-house somewhere –