we say the knife is dead,
or the mouth of the knife is dead
because the death of the mouth is the death
of purpose, or the death of the potency of life
plumbed in the metric noesis inside its tongue.
what we believe— a destiny must sing its course,
regardless. the fire too, must burn its yoke of oxygen.
where I come from, the mouth is also a lethal weapon.
where I come from, you cannot hush the gong
of its pealing, unless the gong is not a gong.
whatever silence the knife has learned in exile
is self-taught in unused. so go ahead, my soul,
follow the ancient achiever’s path, sharpen all
the knives the Blacksmith sheathed
under your skins. sing, Spirit, through
the dreams, speak the harvest
through these efforts, & cut all
my fantasies to testimonies.
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