Writeless
the rock in my head
claims lava as its pulse.
such cracked and turgid ducts.
fingers
massage it into fast-forwarded storms
coursing cranial continents.
whatever cerebral albatross
vents these voluminous fulminations.
sulfurous, nauseous--
what is hell?
this thing in my head?
this crucible of the anti-civil,
fixated, primal, antediluvian, reptile?
or maybe it is just emotion.
thumbs plug nostrils.
knuckles prop ears.
maybe a Great Spider
shouldered the world this way,
a world that was a head,
too heavy for its neck.
a balancing act, then.
stilts, patience, contrivance
across an intertangled, irreducible overdetermined
web.
=====================================
5/28/24....
1/16 ... a couple minor changes
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