There is little as preposterous as a proprietary relationship to language.

(Who am I kidding? There are many things as preposterous,
as wrong-headed, as deluded.)

The words of other people, other poets, so often unpersuasive,
spoken in an awkward, discomforting idiom.

A verbal materialism celebrating artifacts of desire
and incendiary invention.

Informavore, dataphage, scavenger of oneiroglyphs—
but like an encyclopedia, lacking identity and context.

Language (spoken) and language (written) together
comprise the penultimate sense, at once more penetrating
and more unreliable than any of the others.

It's just a phrase I'm going through
and I'm not quite out of the words yet.