young woman downtown, her face framed by ruddy blonde hair
dancing on her shoulders as she walked along the sidewalk
pretty face, young face, gray slacks and black sweater close-fitted and stylish
and the days of my having any hope of closeness outside of commerce
with such a woman as this young woman
are as gone as this winter’s Christmas
my teeth are stained and my gums are sore
my face is lined and my hair turns gray
my mind is slow and my heart, it hurts me all the time
i walk unsteadily now, so i sit here on the cold stone steps of this bank building,
and i do not look up again
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
when a language is a living thing,
it is a tree, with roots and branches.
its words are leaves, flowers and fruits—
twigs, even, for such simplicities as a, the, and and.
a leafy word, well, there’s leaf, to begin with.
branch is a leafy word, too, in this taxonomy, as is roots.
as for flowers, they come in many shapes, sizes and smells.
there is the emetic stench of such poison blooms as faggot and nigger,
the heavy, musky odor of fuck—a fragrance some claim to find offensive,
but almost all are pulled by its enticement—
and on to the light, watery semi-sweetness of rose-by-any-other-name.
as with natural trees, the fruits come last. what would be a fruity word?
not fruit—if it’s not a leafy word, then it’s a flowery word.
not pregnant—although one may assume initially
that pregnant is an obviously fruity word, it is in fact leafy.
a fruity word, a word capable of making itself (or something)
flesh (or flesh-like, or flesh as a very broad metaphor,
because, after all, we’re up a tree), could be such a word as love,
the sometimes sickly-sweet, sometimes—well, it’s love,
fruit of the fuck-flower. it comes in every flavor you can imagine.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“Roughly speaking: objects are colourless.” – Ludwig Wittgenstein, “2.0232”, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus