It occurred to me, yesterday,
at the clamor of thunder
that I could not define
the word clamor,
or, apparently, use it properly,
as I told my friends my ears clamored
at a thunder’s clap,
and they said,
“some poet,”
to which I replied
with nothing; I had nothing
when the clamor
hammered into my brain
all that I could say
and all that had been said
as I stammered,
questioning
a cluster of
memory—
the few memories I could recall
when pencil had produced
this word well-known,
seldom-met,
and why it brought on
this clusterfuck
of emotion and offense.
How had it and why?
I mustered nothing,
until I met the mirror,
only then producing the
greatest defense of
my lexical accident
complimented by curses,
bettered by prose,
argued with a sharp tongue,
and taken
only by the man in front of me:
myself; the thunderous clamor
in my head, deafening,
spat back in my face,
like spitting against the wind,
trying to outlet a storm of words
that would never see
a page,
a memory,
a mind
other than my own,
which, having been so thoroughly
rattled and harassed,
by this slew of invisible elements,
chose to never again
bring use to that word,
to forget this moment
so a memory may never dampen a day,
so as not to be a subject of
a hurricane of language and thought.
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