Babble, Babble

Babble, Babble

When my dear heart speaks

of foreign times, foreign objects,

with a foreign tongue and Chicklet teeth,

I protest with unaltered silence.

Many a moments I have pleaded

for an explanation, a definition,

a table or chart - any means

for understanding his paths

of question and contemplation.

How can I comprehend his message

through disdain and sarcasm?

I dig. I pillage. I dive down deep

and still resurface with empty hands.

The saliva scrolling down his throat,

the vibration of his vocal chords

against the wind from his lungs confuses me.

He obsesses over machines with brains,

void of feelings, bodies of massive circuit systems

that strain with raw, eclectic power.

His fantasies involve buttons being mashed,

potions being ingested, mana being restored,

and weapons being purchased and sold

only to be purchased and sold again and again.

The man even signs electronically

without the use of ink or quill.

I draw mental diagrams of his words

with small written descriptions located

below the poorly detailed pictures

and somehow I remain blinded

and forced into the pitch black hole of uncertainty.

The only way to desist this problem

is to accept the reticent defeat.

After the lecture is over and done,

the refrain of my dumbfounded circles

still hangs low over my brow

and plagues my eyes like tiny flashbulb impressions

that linger in the sight after a candid snapshot.

September 25, 2010