I spit something out
Wonder what it is
And get back to writing
It could be my crumbling teeth,
Or ants, another bee,
Spiders perhaps.
Dirt, could be dirt,
or grounds or leaves.
My mouth feels brown and murky
No telling what’s coming next
What will slither or ooze out
Slip or spit out
But it’ll be dark
And pungent
And hidden.
Cotton mouth?
I wouldn’t be so worried about the snake if we didn’t have chickens, and rabbits, and mice, and birds. For the right snake it’s a feeding bonanza. The right snake is probably venomous.
Baby Blue
How do you feel about introspective measures?
The way you should, of course.
They’re bunk, bogus, unreliable
I could tell you that I’m doing great
That I have a strong and disciplined mind, thankfully, or else I might go mad
That I strung myself in a corner by growing too fond of a muddled idea
That it’s almost like ripping latex from flesh
That, meanwhile, I wrote seven poems
That I’ve waited for rain and need a scarecrow
That I’ve been trying to figure out whose DVDs are who’s, and I delight in the hand labeled ones
That I’m digging “Reflections and Echoes”, the double DVD rockumentary on Pink Floyd. I’m hoping there’s some Floyd here somewhere. Maybe there was a CD, maybe I already loaded it.
- - -UPDATE: the Pink Floyd, the Dark Side of the Moon CD, is actually another, and in my mind, inferior, DVD rockumentary. But that could just be disappointment talking- - -
That I’m wondering what the AM Gold CD is.
It’s molded like a 45, and I wonder if it could be played on a turntable.
It starts with a soft-rock riff,
so I imagine it’s a soft-rock compilation
- - -UPDATE: it’s a sampling of various pop genres of olden songs you can imagine listening to in a 70s convertible, baby blue- - -
- - -UPDATE: you probably have a fro, and a bedazzled jumpsuit, purple with wide lapels, pink with navy trim. Covered in glitter that you probably call fairy dust.
A platform boot stomps on an accelerator, a glove yanks a handbrake, a convertible skids onto the main two-lane blacktop.
Baby Blue bites down on a cinnamon toothpick, releases the brake and rockets into the sunset- - -
- - -UPDATE: there is also Muzak up in here- – -no, wait, it’s brilliant- - -[pouting face]- - -[flushed face]- - -it’s an unobtrusive melody, with innocuous instrumentation, and the only words are a harmonic chorus weaving in from time to time: “you left me just when I needed you most”- - -[sort of unhappy face]- - -[vaguely unhappy face]- - -[crying face]- - -
That yesterday it dawned on me introspection is bunk, bogus, and unreliable.
But how would I know?
[oddly evil and smiling face]
Attuned 2
A phrase,
slow and deliberate,
common, perhaps cliche,
is brilliant
—how could it not be?
whittled down, averaged out,
streamlined, continued
escaped, perhaps, from
a garden, or wood—
a mishmash unguided and unguarded
a chaotic crisscrossing
of cross-species competition.
Cluttered and busy and jangling. And like a house, or eyes, is a map, a broad overview of a mental state.
Attuned 1
Beauty is average height,
average weight,
and average hair,
—how could it not be?
with graceful eyes controlled
by millions of muscles,
being fed autonomic impulses
from a million neurons.
Fuck hips, the eyes are the species’ signage.
Before there were words,
we cast meaning with our eyes
when there was danger or need love or fright
This set, this love,
alarm, or empathy
manifests in eyes
before words
your eyes meet,
and you’re human again
Momentarily forgetting
the apple you’re holding,
the juvenile learning nearby,
the ally hiding in the canopy
Eyes are lowrez and fast.
A broad overview of another’s immediate emotional and cognitive states.
Their eyes tell you
your baseline responses
are comparable:
This is an ally
intelligent, cooperative,
and free for sharing.