sometimes it’s fun to clasp around silent letters
while mispronouncing words made of careful syllables
while tiredly huffing in diesel fumes
praying to the god you know
and hoping to not be put
on some island of mispronunciation
words spill forth,
in a torrential downpour,
drenching the parched mind,
with a deluge of foreign lore
voices rise and fall,
in a cacophony of sound,
jumbling the syntax,
till sense is lost and aimless
colors bleed and blend,
into a psychedelic hue,
letters swirl and dance,
like an iridescent view
phrases spin and twist,
into a dizzying array,
grammar morphs and shapes,
like an amoeba at play
Fred Aiken Writing 