the quebec immigration song

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words make reality

never has this simple statement meant so much to me
as when i walk out inspired by some poetry
and realize
that all i have worried about for months are words
all i have worked towards
words
all i have talked about
words
unpretentious, unimaginative, first words

my future a split infinity
of highlights and downward spirals
each silver-tained shard reflecting a fantasy
and i can only choose
if i use
the right words

how absurd, that i've been caught up in this war that i've been brought up to see as sheer folly
like most wars
but here i am
forced to hold a gun up to my own tongue and
"speak!
don't be nervous, that'll only make this worse
be clear and precise
and concise would be nice"
with my ear that sears the edges of each sound ground out by the machine that will spit out
a "pass" or a "fail"
"free parking" or "go to jail"

and so i pull the trigger but there's no "bang"
just blood pouring from my prosthetic tongue onto unfamiliar feet
with s-s-stuttering nonsense and nothing like the beat of my heart
from whom my thoughts part the darts that i blow from my lips, that trip and teeter
et finalement tombent

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