by SR Inciardi

Suddenly the words are flying, 

what is said and what each new word means

carries an order to a different order,

orchestrated by the tides of mass opinion 

in a deep sea of what’s spoken 

and what’s no longer said.

It is not that the words are taboo, 

they’ve simply been sent away 

to a retirement home deep in the woods 

where only eyes speak clearly, catapulted

over the wall to the banished and bedridden

where others gather among tolerant ramblers

who do not know anything’s changed,

speaking in the words they come upon 

as if some science elders cannot fathom. 

Now the old ones have been shoved to their death, 

never spoken, never read 

in agonous innocence, 

the druxy portions of language 

sifted from replacements nudiustertian,

as if rolled into twine balls 

doused in oil, set afire, 

launched.