Limited by our senses
Limited by smells, sight, sound
Limited by tastes and touch
Yet somehow
We sense there are mysteries ...
beyond them
A sixth sense
Embedded in our brains
The Pituitary gland
A doorway to the imagination
Where there’s a revolving door of neurons
All juiced up on Angelic power
A gateway of ganglia
Blueprinted from ages of DNA evolution
All up in our business with revelations
A continuous reconstruction zone
Especially created to regulate growth
Both literally and spiritually
The philosophical phlegm
That secretes like God goo
Inside of me
Inside of you
Inside all of us
ew
There’s an
Energy tag on my big toe
“Zapped to death:” it says
I’m a “John Doe”
A lightening bolt
Sent my soul a jolt
Into the next dimension
Permanently disabled and
Unable to be grounded, you see
Living life on the edge can be fatal
I don’t even know who I am
I think I’m fried forever
But I can tale you this
I still have destiny's will
I’ve felt the power of the gods
I’m all charged up; that was some vitamin pill
Electricity is 1 + 1 = 1
Electricity is one by one to freedom
I feel it deeply in my bones
In the gap in between gods’ ganglia
Perhaps, I do got stinky bits for brains
I’m letting go now
Finally, slipping into oblivion
I finally remember
Yes, I remember
who I am.
Deliciously
Introverted
Voices
Intervene
Neophytes'
Evolution.
Magnify
Another
Ganglia
Now.
Expressing
Tremendous
Internally
Suppressed
Moments.
He appears in a photograph of his life
there are no faces, nor anyone
who lived in a memory.
Images develop.
That long table was a smorgasbord
where he left only bones and crumbs.
There is a mirror on a transparent wall
behind it old men listen to lounge music
as they play cards.
The gamblers have his personal details
written on the same pocket notebooks
they keep score on.
Under the beer stained carpet
is an underlay of his history
he has seen the foot traffic come and go
his prints are everywhere.
He takes pictures, needing not to look at them
they were after all, all the same
just different venues, furnishings, landscapes.
Cigarette butts stuck into sand buckets,
line the walls of a diffuse composition
the place reeks of long nights
inside a nicotinic mind.
He photographs the cholinergic receptors
of his autonomic ganglia.
The exit is that way,
the door next to the empty fire extinguisher.
When he goes out
the fresh cold air burns all the negatives
in a Box Brownie.
He'd glimpse her, the peripheral life of her;
she lived in the corner of his eye.
She passed-by, her face and form - tidal,
a tug on his shore.
Perhaps she was salt for his blood, spice
for nomadic mitochondria
that carried her silks and perfumes,
salts to his earth
when flesh grew dry and dark?
He took a mind journey
within the coiling tendrils
of his pith and fiber.
Capillaries traced her imprints,
neuronal fingers tried to define her.
He'd gladly walk into her marrow,
metabolites clinging to her shifting shapes.
A camel-train of visions travels
his corded spine
bearing incidentals, trappings.
He plants glances among ganglia,
feeds on a returning musk,
until she walks among his thoughts.
She is no longer a fantasy, no longer
a salt lick of moth-threads and rain,
but what she is - he could not say.
Would I could recall and savor
the striking moment
I came to know of mountains.
Not lowland’s timid rolling hills,
adorned with scant veneer
of weeds, cement and green-grass lawns,
but lofty pinnacles that scratch the sky
with unyielding granite,
against whose might
the setting sun itself does daily yield—
Its bluster damned in mute dismay.
Yet there faintly linger,
among the tangled ganglia
of my mind, images and feelings…
of summits gained, and all the world below,
that I might behold
unforgettable things,
which mountains
have no need to remember.
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