with the pith of her
scooped out from her chest
like ice cream
and a shoddy vestibular system
quaking her legs and dizzying her head
she dreamed of wax ears and bits of snowflake trapped in her fingernails
and Wittgenstein saying,
“One is unable to notice something because it is always before one’s eyes.”
we have
knowledge-that and knowledge-how
we have calendar pages and cycles of the moon
we have propioception and smelling salts
we have Antarctica and American Idol
we have locks on our doors
we have nothing
and Sacks speaks of, “an uttering forth of one’s whole meaning with one’s whole being.”
getting carried away on the tide of aporia
swept up into the leavening of things
a lottery gambler
a mixed message machine
clubbed and busted and ruined
a piña colada if you like piña coladas
if that’s what floats the proverbial boat
like using expressive speech with an aphasiac
like using evocative speech with a tonal agnosiac
nothing is the only thing that is understood
with the ocellus of a white-knuckled soul
eat more raisins
in the deep end you depend on believing in the shallow end
it acts as a balance to the weight of your stability
from feeling too well or not ill enough
dully poised and dutifully on edge
Lish whispers, “The aphonia of matrimony.”
Nanci sings, “I am a backseat driver from America.”
It’s trouble under the blankets
It’s cradling the cruelest parts
It’s moldering under the heat lamps
It’s wearing sunglasses in the dark all alone in a room spinning around until dizziness and euphoria come
It’s the mildew clinging to the shower curtain
It’s it
isn’t it?
music pulling pushed to through
with a thrumming clutch
tied knotlessly to relentless boards
curiosity notwithstanding
long enough for a commercial break
Nietzsche moans, “Only great pain is the ultimate liberator of the spirit.”
dressed in modalities of dispersion’s lost motion
still toasting during the worst of times
while barnacles of despair aggrandize
baseball players still wear hats to work
and the bicycle riders pedal
there are weekly moments of peace kinked into the bight of night’s rope
to be had while delivering the garbage cans to the curb
to be felt but not seen
a chance
to be alone and without a narrative
to be not oneself at all
a mistake in the fabric of unexamined things
while living a carefully over-examined life
children laugh their way up the sidewalk
a dog’s bark sparks a thorny appeal
leafless trees lose their shadows
a fly sneezes
cobwebs stitch the dusty shelves
newspapers lose their newsprint and go kaput
and a little violin music drifts from an open window
Nebuchadrezzar kvetches, “There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.”
We all draw straws
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