I asked for the mouth of violence
to speak its truth,
but it had no words.
it comes from a language of gutturals.
it has heave as opposed to pronounce.
it has thrust as a use of breath
as volume races ahead of what is meant.
loud is a start up sound
where-is expresses a claim of rights,
to speak outright
rather than be spoken down to.
as exasperation eventually yields
to a close of the mouth in recovery.
yet launch starts the next utterance
as if very close-by is perceived
as far far away,
if meaning is actually conveyed in that way.
emphasis is earnestness is intent.
to say outright
from where stir has been brutalized
for the yield of these seconds
is to harvest instances
of the backlash to the conduct of abuse.
and reaction to brutality
previously administered
is not to give an account
but to revive from those moments
as if of now,
an agony and anguish
without time restraints,
a seething that continues to boil,
that has emotion not confinable
to forming words.
to come roaring forth
from where sound is composed
of it own tonal meanings,
where listen can not be solely
of audience-intake,
where feel is all ears
that do more than just hear,
where the spine listens up
and ache has a sense of touch in it.
so can you hear what I am saying?
for I have canyons of violent memories.
and if you are standing close enough,
I have vivid and lucid as spittle
coming out of my launch at speech.
I am crying out of my mouth
before it up gets to my eyes.
my hands tremble the braille
of past violence.
just hold my hands
as time transports the truth to tell.
my body is all mouth speaking.
please, for your feeling to be all ears.
lift me up with your apprehend
to drown out the echo of this pain.
the acoustics of your embrace
deadens this aftermath.
hearing me helps to heal,
as a choir of empathy
begins the mending process from within.
listen then becomes more than just heard,
for my say has field presence
and your listen
then has heartfelt embrace . . .
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