What's the point?!

Labour finds its way into my words. Its stuck there on the tip of my diving board tongue. I could say that I am a dyslexic, but that would only be an excuse. Therefore, with a gossamer thread I dive in and attempt a barrage of those 50 cent words and pause, lost in thought.

Ahhh! I can't know every word so I have to act them out. It is point-less to look before I leap, so, I hypocritically prepare to become more Sir-Real, and as I do, I wonder, how awe-full it would be if I didn't. Recklessly I step-down into a wordsmith's shoes and straddle a high-bred mule of alphabetic thought.

Okay, here goes. With a thesaurus and Webster's at my side and like a gunslinger, I draw their silver bullet metaphors, their metallic analogies, and dress in leather adjectives. Eeeh yaaaaa whoo. Ride ‘em cowboy.

We've all played word dress up at one time or another and pretended to know what they meant. You've done it too. Come on, you know you have. Humble yourself and admit. It looks good if we use dem big words. Just ‘cause we use dem werds don't mean we knows hows to yous dem edjimakated words. Ya sees, dose smarty pants, the literary police and the deputies to the alphabet soldiers, day be da ones who stands near by judg'in us.

They disarm us through rhetorical discourse and arrest those who break the literary letters of the law. Dayz be tellin' us wees can't invent a word or two or yuse dem dis way or dat way. If it ain't like their words, it ain't. Why can't I yous ‘em? They be my words or someone's like me. Hey! Ya you. Before you sentence me and punctuate it with no hope for parole (English and French), here is my summation in an on-going da-fense.

A living culture and language defines my living history in everyday speech. We may not know how to write the words but we are more than

the eyes that see them. We may not know the legal grammatical structure but we feel them. And many times we may not know the meaning but we use them, inventing new uses for dem.

Yo Yo Yo, haven cha heard, the sound of the bird,
in a child's word, is not absurd.
They are words unwritten, words beyond meaning,
thoughts beyond feeling, imagination without a ceiling.
Through the created they are translated languages of the soul.
The images dance, songs take a chance and the music takes a hold.
They are metaphorical myths and multi-dimensional twists of iconography
that paint the way to more than written words could say of humanity.
Yo Yo Yo, haven'cha heard, the sound of the bird, is a child's word.
Haven'cha heard a child's word? Haven'cha heard the unwritten word?
A muse by any other non-noun word would be ego-less verb.
Haven'cha heard? Shhhhh, listen, its not a word, it's the process of life

"Bbmaadiziwin" is an ancient Ojibway word to define one's life ways emotionally, physically, spiritually, and intellectually. The process of these ways seeks a balance of all its elements summons-ing its source in and from a physical, meta-physical, intellectual and spiritual unconscious-conscious reality. The artists of the time, the jesters of the court, the shaman of the tribe or goddesses of wican ways are conduits between realms of existence and collectors of life's experiences. By an inner will, they weave into a tapis-spherical mosaic infinite dimensions from its source. They are equal-anomalistic-beings on the horizontal of limited isolated western alphabetic thought.

Willingly trapped in an infant's pure creative in-sight / out-sight, these shamans, wicans and artists exist between worlds, labouring a balancing act for hue-man-kind. For example, if you're 4 years old and you're happy and you know it, sad, angry, or any emotion, and you know it, its okay.

Come on and sing it with me, "If your happy and your know it, clap your hands. ....." But when you stand up and express beyond accepted written or spoken words, you do not pass go, you go directly to jail, punished with solitude, Hee, hee, being alone.

As a connected creative conduit, I stand here, before you, guilty as charged. Jailed for expression just like Joe Azaria who said, "There are more masses then there are bosses" (Joe Azaria) I stand convicted among the masses. If you failed or jailed anyone then you know I am not alone.
Who was civilized and who was the savage? I am not the only one who has been forced to abandon indigenous roots and exiled into the inhumane badlands of the wild wild west. I have inherited self-inflicted buy-cultural wounds. I have endured academic bullying. I have been scarred and scared by intellectual raping. I have been held back while humour and humanity were stripped from their pagan ways and shackled by systemic greed.

I have witnessed the death of honour and duty while watching a dead horse of English wit become a mule. And, I have seen this Shakespearian mule, burdened with the past, stubbornly stagnate to justify itself. Then I laughed as this mule got flogged into modern thought, a romantic mount of another name, a heroic steed to a blind Knight. It was this visually impaired aristocrat that convicted me. You see, justice IS blind. It chooses to be that way. How can something so biased claim not to be. Who else would call a mule a throe bread (thorough bred).

This back-word way of seeing sinks us in the quick-sand of rhetoric. Sentenced into a purgatory of punctuation, up a shit creek without a paddle, I set sail away from the flow. In a man made information highway / waterway, all are side-swiped and shipwrecked by a vessel of villainous virtue. Stranded by this a lit error ation, we are left to drink from the stagnating pierian spring and fed a little bit of knowledge of a dangerous thing. (Pope)

In the sinking of ancient ideals the man captain isn't the one who goes down with the ship. His pirated principles board sunken spirits and rape non-alphabet cultures, women, children and their connection to the process of life. Violated again and again by his naive arrogance and impositional ways, we acculturate to survive.

The orphaned words of defeated cultures are appropriated, and used to parent us. A fragile sense of truth is anchored by .... get ready, here it is again ... a gossamer thread of hierarchical worth to muddy misogyny, a disconnected past from spiritual gods ,,, huh, to the almighty material buck of today. As I re-visit my past, I re-call that ugly place of feminine repression.

I wish to break free from a disconnected limited isolated alphabeticly visually impaired male world view and return to the flow, the process of life. Labour finds its way into my words. I'm not a dyslexic, I have a creatively unique way of seeing the world. As I attempt a barrage of

babble, do I look for life in the cross-words they only hear? What's the point?!

©WRM