two sections from Jack Spicer's poem "Phonemics" (1965)

No love deserves the death it has. An archipelago
Rocks cropping out of ocean. Seabirds shit on it. Live out their 
	lives on it.
What was once a mountain.
Or was it once a mountain? Did Lemuria, Atlantis, Mu ever 
	exist except in the minds of old men fevered by the 
	distances and the rocks they saw?
Was it true? Can the ocean of time claim to own us now adrift
Over that land. In that land. If memory serves
There (that rock out there)
Is more to it.

Malice aforethought. Every sound You can make making music. Tough lips. This is no nightingale. No- Body's waxen image burned. Only Believe me. Linguistics is divided like Graves' mythology of mythology, a triple goddess--morphology, phonology, and syntax. Tough lips that cannot quite make the sounds of love The language Has so misshaped them. Malicious afterthought. None of you bastards Knows how Charlie Parker died. And dances now in some brief kingdom (Oz) two phonemes That were never paired before in the language.