This is where I live,
A place, situated
Five and three quarters feet
Above the street, or floor
Give an inch or more,
Thus placed behind my eyes,
Between my ears,
I exist to surmise
With what signals give
From nerve transmissions supervised
By genetics, peripatetics
Of this beast devised
By evolution’s solutions.
To comprehend what appears.
This brain, it’s plain,
Sits in divorce of light, of sound,
Of all that’s around, behind, above,
Touched only by the prompts of sensors
Specific to particulars of
Light, of sound, of touch and more
To be sorted, parsed, creating consequensors
Linking thinking, sinking
Into the morass of what to hate, what to adore
How to rate import, how to score,
Make use or abuse
Of the time to be alive
Or merely deny one must die.
This brain is not me.
In its constant fury to maintain,
Sustain vitality to just be,
Pump blood, air, gain
Nutrition, energy, entertain
To confront complexities
Of time and thunderstorms and snow,
Simply discovering how and where to go.
It assembled me as an implement,
An instrument to compass geographies
It has assembled from the tweaks and nudges
Of its fingertips and eyes.
I try to nullify surprise,
Plot alternates to disaster,
Secure my master.
I live and dance and delight
Amongst the fantasies
Of universe, of world, of day and night.
Of these glorious inventions
Out of fragments of sound and sight.
Realities, no doubt, are pluralities,
Trunking, branching, twigging
Immensely integrating possibilities
Of explorations and fertilities.
The mental halls of alls,
The palaces of time and space
Configured to contain within their walls
Things that are, that have been,
Sunshines of triumphs, midnights of disgrace.
People elsewhere smile at me,
The dead quite visibly still actively embrace.
Whatever might be in ubiquity,
This inner cosmos is my home.
A construct, personal, of desire, hope.
Expectation and despair
Subject to a need for constant repair
Where intellect can flounder and only grope.