Stretched on light
long and catlike,
an image licks the curve,
somersaults through my eye
and bruises into view.
The sound cartwheels
in horrible geometry,
still ignorant with the dew
shrieking scalene from daybreak –
and I am lost in my ossicles.
Everything reaches me
through tremor
and trapeze –
I cannot walk without wondering,
I cannot walk without what
I cannot remember.
A crack in the vacuum
crowds in with a hiss
and rushes the curlicues
with a circus of circuitry.
What was the tension setting
when I sat unstrung,
festooned
like veins on a map,
strobing blind in mis-memory
town-after-town
lost in the pleats;
did I lie down a lady,
pages of burning hair,
and wake into this fiction?
A twig snapping in a
swollen ambience of gas
echoes without conscience,
but in a wild arc
through the grey
lattice-work
of autumn bones
and out through
their dead fingers
is where my mind goes.
*Jamais vu
yes,yes, sommer, you describe the visceral miasma well.
Thanks Dean. Sometimes senses and chemical exchanges are the weirdest, the body trips itself out and whenever the mind observes it, it seems so alien.