All men are created equal, but I still fear that I do not speak safely.
All men are created equal, but I fear that when I dance with dictionaries I am silenced by swords.
All men are, All men are, All men?
I hope my words will grab at least one out of one hundred out of the fear and let them
See-I in cipher!
The art in artificial.
Or the life in lifer.
The love in slovenly.
The drive in drivelling.
But our language has never let me find myself in all men.
I am often silenced by the gavelling of all the swords of English. In between each sword there is a single word. I cling onto that word in between all of the swords, that knife and seduce, the swords that choose and abuse, the swords that have an ironic sweet speech speak the slowest nonsense as it translates into poetry then slices me. In between the swords is a word and I will find the human who said it first.
They who saw the word for it’s beauty and found the foundation of thought:
I am in Iambic.
The draw of drawing.
The rose of prose.
Words can help me find the human in re humanized. I forget the S that is placed in front of words but then I run into the swords again as I see the
The pain in painting
The love in pullover
The pass in passion
The obstruction of each double-edged defeat. I find again and again the us in dust, an us in exhaust, an us- the word inside swords, the us that can crush us.
All men are created equal.
The us that thought there was only man in mankind, manmade, manpower, I thought we were human, including humanity.
I want to speak English safely. I have run away from the swords until they have sliced my body in shards, swollen by the scowl I love to call the gauge of language. I am othered by English, rendered invisible like the word in the very sword that sunk me into the cage that is our alphabet.
I have forgotten about the letters A through Z, rinsing and recycling only 8 to spell B-E-A-U-T-I-F-U-L silently. I had left language in the dust the way I had left us- the way I had only spoke a disabled person but a person with disabilities, schizophrenic but a person with schizophrenia, amputee but a person with an amputation, these words were of the ease of innovation, can silence me with only the ease of vocabulary, defining a disease as a person.
Sometimes I fear that I will worsen life with words, that I will be stung by swords and my poetry will be moulded into horrid paths that I was blinded by, my sky will fold into itself and all I will see is pale baby white clouds asking me if I can spell my name in the fluff of imagination.
I found the Angel in Angelica the Angelic in Angelica, the sky in my last name. I had to open more than my eyes to dig out the word home in poetry though it may have been invisible in English sedation.
The word between two swords can be left unseen in double edged defeat wondering if we see the person in supersonic or our words too unheard for our thoughts, lost in translation?
Angelica Poversky is an avid member of the Spoken Word Community in Vancouver. She has actively been performing at many events in the community, such as Pandora’s Summer Dreams, The CHIMO Violence Against Women Conference and The Top 25 Environmentalist Awards. She is Vancouver’s Top 24 Under 24, Richmond’s 30 under 30 and a Richmond Arts Award Winner in recognition for her spoken word. She has been published in Farrago, Misfit Lit, The Really System, Re:Zine, and now DMdJ.