My Deaf Voice Poem by richard ilnicki

They say my voice dosen't carry very far;
it reminds them of the sound of flatulence
which barely breaks the wind
and is embarrassingly odorless.
Perhaps they are right
even though I am shouting
at the top of my congested lungs.

I am straining my vocal chords while
screaming at ubiquitous iniquitous inequities
such as
inveterate hardened criminals
who have been captivating headlines as victims.
The shrill sound of this ambiguity
is the death rattle of mucus
breathing down the narrow neck of history.
Its phlegmatic wave comes
in waves
through turgid windpipes choking on anachronisms.

When I speak my piece
my regurgitated vowels dropp to the floor lifeless
as psychomotor retarded thoughts
headed for the behavior ward.
Unacknowledged accountability
pokes through my larynx like a scalpel; this wound
produces a raspy choking volume cycled
mechanical ventilation.
This fanciful language via the use of a tracheostomy
is the mute's poetic reprieve,
but it painfully vibrates the hearer's eardrums.

Should I be so surprised then
that this generation can't hear the screams
of the quintessential emasculated man
who shattered a glass last night with his lonely whisper?
I don't think so!
So please don't tell me
I have rocks in my head
because I have begun to speak
with rocks in my mouth.