Poem: Writeless

 

Writeless

 

the rock in my head

claimed lava as its pulse.

cracked and turgid ducts.

 

fingers massaged it,

fast-forwarded storms

coursing cranial continents.

 

my breath sought to ease

this cerebral albatross,

vent its voluminous

fulminations.  sulfurous,

nauseous--

 

was it hell?

 

this thing in my head,

this center of civil-social fears,

fixated, primal,

antediluvian and reptile?

 

or maybe it was just life.

 

thumbs plug nostrils.

middle knuckles prop ears.

 

maybe a Great Spider

shouldered the world this way,

a world that was a head,

too heavy for the neck.

 

a balancing act, then.

stilts, patience, and convolutions

of intertangled, overdetermined, irreducible

far-too-dense web.

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1/16 ... a couple minor changes