Accent is the scissors, the 360 degree-cutting mouth
that he holds above me. When it harrows, it does that
blindly, through the thickets of a black questionnaire,
non-stop, pushing them down not just to this salon-cape;
but they’re everywhere, floating around, throwing sand
in my face. As my trainer once told me, it might seem
difficult at first, but afterwards, it will be a cakewalk.
Them with their anesthetic tips ripping open my head,
and me unsaying a no…
It’s this mirror, that shoves me back to where I
got up from, to me, my land, all in just one reflection -
Frame by frame, bringing me the pieces I missed to
fit in since the beginning, the whys and the hows of
belonging.  Even if it’s late, I see the sparkling head,
the zero difference I make whether I emit a “wave cut”
or a “shave cut”.  It blurs me, but I see that – after all
these runs and disguises, I am still standing there…
It’s the garlic, that grows only more in my mouth
after every floss, evokes and embodies every silent letter
abased for centuries. Though I don’t know why they shifted
the vowels first, it shifts me back and forth, sifts me through
the diacritics and the heteronyms that this world offers.
Like a flavor that burns my 2 GB data, my dates and when
I reach my office, my boss, it is with me, knocking each
one of them out, by blowing the glottal T again and again…
Accent is the frog, that mostly stays quiet in my throat,
but in the heat of discussions, in that intense mood when
it can’t hold back more, it jumps out, up in the air, with an
eccentric tropical croak, carrying on its legs all the filth
gathered from our shores, the wet and the crudeness, truth
and the vulgar, and lands on their plates. When it happens,
it’s quite amazing. Some fun for the restaurant to watch.
The table turning, some coughing out their eyeballs, some
clapping, just like they have seen my frog…