Dialogue de Sourds

A painted and garmented dead tree is still a dead tree.And conversing is as overrated as Pythagoras's Theorem.Though I understand he was born on an islandto an engraver of gems. Only the black and whitephoto of a swimming woman has meaning to me this morningand the most arresting image in last night's dreamwas of a human flesh & blood babyplaced in the arms of a cardboard paper doll mother.But let's not listen to the deipnosophist bloviate—spewing long-winded and supercilious speechesand instead look at the tarragon,the mustard and the beets placed lovingly on the plate.And let's look at all varieties of shoes under the table.The wind in remission today and though it's months awayI would like a book of paper dolls as a giftto mark the day I came out of my mother's vagina.You think I'm crude, others think I'm cured.Not like a Spanish ham, but like a cripplewho can walk again after being touchedin the tent by a televangelist.It's hard to believe I'm in lovewith a man who loves Jimmy Swaggart—who records his middle of the night telecaststo watch later while ironing.I would happily cut with small rubber-handled scissorsand fold the little tabs on the dressesto adhere them to her nude and sexless paper body.Still a²+b²=c²makes no impression in clayor in the interstitial islands betweenmy last rib and my tongue.My head is tilted toward the compilation of shoes under the tableas the Dialogue de sourds is racketing above.The only words without false iridescenceare being spoken out the window near to the wellby widows and widowers talking dailyto their beloved deceaseds.And the whisper into the ear of a stricken donkey.