The Incan had no words
Nothing written,
not as such
of poetry and record they did not ponder much
Incans had string.
Incans had knots.
Incans had something figured out.
Incans didn’t send court summonses via bicycle.
Or sew novels between slices of skin
Incans didn’t miss anything.
They didn’t miss tricks, picks, flicks–
An Incan remembered a story of she didn’t
my bad
She carried a theme to carry through like a full tray of pint glasses
Or a punch line concealed like the pin of a boutenniere
Or didn’t
And the moment was swept behind
bricked up
pulverized or used to pulverize
Incans used “llama,” “condor,” and “puma,” but did not make note of it.
There is no citation.
What Incans had was punch cards, fast fingers, fur pulled into threads.
Here’s the Incas, I say, show a world map highlighted with a snake up its right leg
What they had was Excel, not Word
Incans kept their sounds in the aquifer, where they can still be drawn up, locally
We (Incans) did not leave you romances, sexual positions, prayers, curses, dedications.
A half Incan poet lied (poet lied, stop the presses!) “the Inca recorded all the speeches and arguments they had uttered”… twitter
The syllable affair
The phoneme affair.
The pictograph marriage.
We don’t carry rhymes here.
We don’t stock your name, or his.
The Incans had no words.
Going On 