Courtesy of Rachel McKibbens
Mad Skillz
My throat is a hanging, rusted gutter; this perfects the way I speak Shyriiwook. Fuck you never sounded so truthful when I say it like this. Yet, this fictitious fluency has no lexicon or fan guide translating my growls and grunts into things like “I would like some cheese” or “Could you please stop stepping on my new shoes” or “I love you”. When I turn bus seats into sleep clinics, school children poke my ribs, ask me to talk like Chewbacca. Their parents glare when I try chiding them in English. A homeless punch card programmer handed me a punch card deck on a Lazy Susan in exchange for half a turkey and Munster sandwich and a diet cola spiked with backwash. He claimed the secrets of the galaxy lied between the punches. I unlocked a galaxy of lameness in my tongue; I aim to collapse it with enough bite wounds.
