Mind’s Eye
Well thought out food asks the brain
to explain what it cannot taste:
Difficult design like finding truth
in someone demanding to be understood
triggering and specific like high-school hallways
And painful recess on a playground without grass,
A window seat in a forty-hour workweek.
Resonating like prayers in church,
where music and genius blend together
Or buying cauliflower, how we decide which is better.
Spitting in speech – our insecurity:
smoke filled clouds of stupidity.
Slow moving jaws and
rotten and unforgivable clanks
that interrupt and repeat
like radiators hissing heat.
A drip from above bounces on the edge of what seems like one
thick, but not, instead a bunch,
of many fine strands, saturated on the left side of my head,
knocking on cerebellum like a neighbor in need,
wanting my memories to write for personal means.
Over indulgence and too much to drink,
getting it out in sweaty sighs of relief.
Overfeeding fish due to excitement and carelessness
This warm-blooded responsibility
is forgotten every fifteen minutes.
Exhaustion produces a mimicking image:
the world’s smallest man shouting.
In sleep, writers sweat through their teeth
in the wee hours spawning cells that think.
Imperfect sight isn’t qualified
but with much debate and three tools of compromise:
words, rhythm, and rhyme, the art pushes on.
Choices are certain
like hairs saluting a belly button:
a poem’s best gift is its wisdom.
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