by John Davis
Listen to the verbs rattling green leaves,opening-closing their vowels in deepyawns. They cackle down the mountain,snap off ly’s from adverbs, and like anarchists throw them against the forest floor strip victims of their humanity.Hear them hook their consonants around tree trunks,pull, uproot. More cackle. Spit, kick, club,create a new language like colonists conqueringAfrica. Now they litter adjectives in major cities,misplace modifiers in townships, steal objectsdirect and indirect, interject pointlesspunctuation where once words walked barefoot,moved among sentences freely, sacks of grainon their heads, their metaphors light and airylike muslin. Witness prepositions danglingfrom tight nooses, not running loose like childrenin playgrounds. Language invaders rip upconjunctions, rearrange the letters into curtwarnings. At every doorway, exclamation pointsstand stiff as sentries. But in the jungle the sentence fragments gather, mend their nouns and pronounsand the resistance begins.