Smith

I am Irish, I do not patter a brogue, not lilt, or prate the Celtic. I’m annexed English, cockney, a dead queens piglish, chameleon tongued. Something took me, shook me like a spade until an un-rooted soil fell, a ground crumbled grew tropical jungles of alien expression. Years press, some bulldozed, some were the wrecking ball. Found my clay feet stomping, squishing mud, fostering images, a mire between a to zee but never enough letters to fit a parlance; my placeless patios, my me. America, a melting polyglot, I’m still slanging, hanging words out to dry, new words told contrary-wise estranged in an outlandish manner of palaver, a poetry of sorts, sounds unbound and breathing but never replete, yet a bellyful to live in the eyes and ears. Speak slowly and I will hear you with my lips.