My thoughts are often thrown
through mill-wheels,
treading like
a secondary accent,
like one’s wisdom teeth
never cutting through.
The way that certain people
breathe, it’s like
they are telling fibs
through their ribs.
What could alter a voice
when one
“has a strong foreign
or regional accent . . .
the individual with the
less obvious accent
will naturally try
to mimic the stronger one”?
Was it the Toronto-native’s
eerie drawl that I mimicked,
or was it because
I sounded like
James Mason’s accent
in Lolita
when he attempted
to delicately illustrate
his “mature depth”?
I speak in minimal scruples
when I am anxious,
like peppermints
melting on my tongue;
pearly taste where
taste-buds dance
as if at a polka party.
What of the accents
of eyes? Mental glottis, like
sweet scents of gardens.
A Beauty that is out-of-place
“like discovering a prim rose in a swamp.”
What of the accent of change?
the way that I spun around like
a frightened lamb this evening
as the dishes shifted like
the grounds underneath
a nuclear plant
after a major earthquake.
Should murderers be dipped
into radioactive lakes?
This poem may be about
accents, but it may not be.
This poem could be about
scaling up a wall
towards a window
(if I were that tiny)
where a fly buzzes around,
sounding like a dozen ‘copters.
The fly lands on the window,
cleans its antennas,
its legs moving as fast
as hummingbirds’ wings,
producing winds
that nearly throws me
off of the window sill.
However, I scale further
to get a closer look
at the phenomenon;
the fly’s multi-colored eyes
glistening off of my face
like a prism.
Has every accent been betrayed?
Perhaps Yogi Berra would take it
a step further, saying,
“It ain’t over ‘til you’re buried underground.”
Perhaps with a tooth
-y smile, like
a cobblestone road?
Accent of disappearing
from your body:
new verbiage for your
eternal destiny, passing
through, becoming
a “rookie” in the
Vast Unlimited shape
of it all, where
we are mere fibrils
in the
Universe’s body.
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