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An Economy of Language

August 18, 2009

They wouldn’t even pay him off in pennies,
said his poems wandered far too long:

too many synthesaurus additives,
too many old growth words chopped down.

Strapped him to an ankle monitor
that somehow read his thoughts,

buzzed all night when he tried to sleep
and garnished away his dreams.

Hollow-eyed and somber silent, now,
he hoards his words in a coffee can

buried out back beneath the pine, planted
in days when all the things had many names.

Sometimes he spreads his words out,
arranging them in patterns on the grass,

building shapes of presidents and snakes
before burying them in the earth again,

hidden from the hungry mouths of singers,
linguists and bright-eyed myna birds.

by James Brush

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  1. August 24, 2009 at 6:41 pm

    Nice images with a poignant mix of disappointment and wry humour …
    June in Oz

  2. Deb
    August 25, 2009 at 9:52 am

    Excellent — love the wry whimsy. Smart, sharp.

  3. October 9, 2009 at 11:31 pm

    The hunchback in the park, a solitary figure…

    Reminds me of Dylan Thomas.


  1. August 18, 2009 at 8:21 pm
  2. August 25, 2009 at 12:52 pm
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