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10/19/09 - (1)
Words Got Out
One long-ago day or thereabouts, in a far-off land or landmass, In an indeterminate year of their playing-out finality, Word got out that words were out of their mind, their gourd,
That they'd left their senses behind, flown the lexical coop, Decided to call it linguistic quits — this time, for good — Throw it all in, pull up stakes, hit the road, take a breather,
Proclaim themselves no longer players in the game, For reasons not altogether certain, Though the conjectural buzz and spin, in the thin public air,
Had it that the state's Truth Politburo was ethnic-cleansing cliché, That words' once highly precise, sui generis command Had eroded, corroded, under the weight of slovenliness,
And that words had paid too steep a price for old saws, Phrases too hackneyed to make their perceivers stretch for meanings, Rendering today's texts personae non gratae, tomorrow's fish wrap,
The lingua franca a fetid cesspool of discredited detritus, Tired expressions that put all their former devotees into deep sleep. And truthful truth be told, by the Truth Politburo,
Word that they'd gotten out bore more than a semblance of veracity. Days later, the state worded this official pronouncement: "Words will not be tolerated. Language is sentenced to death."
10/19/09 - (1)
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