“Words don’t teach,” it is said by most teachers I’ve known,
So I’ve learned that whatever comes out of the mouth,
Syllabically coated and cast with a spin
On the truth that germinates from deep within,
Speaks in denial of perceived verbal drouth,
but instead, of experience felt to the bone.

Abundance, be aspirate and spill upon page
With ink overflowing and knowing its place.
Treat your blackness with whiting; it may prove exciting.
There’s no better time than right now for my writing.
No teacher am I and that’s not a disgrace.
I am vanishing print now accustomed to age.

The blankness of page is a field ripe for planting.
The seed of the word then locks root in the mind.
As it meets the brain stem it yet breaks through the skull,
Then it grows toward the light and away from what’s null.
Such a word crop becomes the landscape of mankind
As it bates its breath for the produce it’s granting.