Whenever I put myself thru A washer-dryer of words, Some of which strike others as poetic, I wonder if I will ever be able to freely Unfurl my own tongue.

A tongue that speaks mostly to itself, In that language it has read often But had never heard another tongue speak. The anguished language of laughter, Of pained expression and of what is often Failed communication.

A tongue that becomes an object of self hate, A tongue that people squint at when it is wagged As if the tap of flesh against teeth is a secret code, As if the air blowing out of the gullet is a vaudeville act, As is the glaze in their eyes is not a change of channels, But only unexpected problems with my audio system.

So yes, check! 1-2-3, check! There I finally have your attention. Here take this page and wave it, Yes, wave it like a flag. This is my tongue.