Ibble Bibble

by on September 22, 2019 :: 0 comments

hung out in the Saint Louis Cathedral
during the day, mumbling in monotones
in one of the back pews. One of the day-people
the Quarter offered up to those who were afraid
of what the night might bring. If his words,
without reason, alien to logic, ever reassembled
to form a simple sentence no one I know
ever heard it. He babbled, not in response
to questions or voices heard or unheard.
An inner calling, but not an Aesopian language,
saying one thing as rhetorical misdirection,
but meaning another. It was the syllables
that mattered most, his skimble-skamble
stultiloquy a mystery to the devout who entered
for obsecration or redemption, a show of faith,
and heard a darkened voice, an amphigory, a burbling,
bursting bubble of blathering, not sacrilegious,
quietly comforting like a Möbius strip rosary.

editors note:

Clamor over clarity; noise for poise. – mh clay

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