Plausible, Possible, Probable, Inevitable

I must look like a sad badass after
too little sleep with my ginormous
Wranglers and scruffy hat but feel
like I'm getting back to something.
Maybe it's good to destroy brain
cells, maybe they're unnecessary
and perverted. They're like cancer
and can be allowed to be removed,
given permission to release those
elements once they're received.

I think I'm actually looking into
the mechanism workings of my brain,
my biochemical networks lit abnormal
like organic red glowing fragments.
That bird out there, no seriously,
that one chirp I just heard, I'm
serious, this one beautiful song,
this is how I shout. This is how
I access truth, by pushing words
out from that ocean of the void.
That old tightness, that squeeze,
and I stand here enlightened yet
frightened to report, for who
would believe it? Not even me.

I don't know what overtakes me,
maybe the spirit of Jonah, Lord
God save me through this blowhole.
Because I've got this and I've got
the other option, and that one
means not doing it, so I'd better
place it in that position, point
the laser in that direction, for
paranoia begets paranoia, and I
want to live to regret something,
to take a chance when it mattered.

The blinds glew flourescent blue
behind woody orange, then after my
eyes burned I saw dangerous drab,
a lifelike warm, the rest already
forgotten, flushed away in the rush
of fresh sensation. Then that bird's
song appears again as though lower.

I almost lost my balance, not tied
down by a cord like it's something
important that I try to remember or
keep from forgetting or reword or
associate somehow as to save it.

I am the only eyewitness of my own
life events, thus sayeth the Source
Unquestioned, and write an epic poem
like printing a book in one copy by
hand, channeled through he who was
trained to remember the words that
feel like they're suspended above
a glowing radiance. Watching lights
coming out of the page, drops of
focus appearing like tears that
hover briefly on a window pane.

I can trace a graceful garden line
across your face, blue on green
glass tint tilted while I continue
in weirdoland and you just keep
right on sleep sequencing darling.
Weird dark force matter energy
clouding up and passing through,
patterns upswelling yet static.

I'm very insecure. I get nervous
and I speed up and I get out of
sequence. I've gone split brain
again, both sides far across the
crosshatches filled, left to right
oscillating. I look ahead like a
goddamn train conductor. Next time
I'll throw some goddamn boulders.


2011