Emotions: A Boxed Set
It’s the kind of tail-in-socket anxiety
that plugs directly into the body—
manifesting in myriad symptoms of dis-ease.
Heat, chills, itch,
to a lead weight.
A tilted feeling.
An agitated remix
of all of the above.
(or is it the brain?)
aflame, like a burning bush.
Being able to breathe.
The billowing curtain
of cilia and nerve endings
stirred by an oxygen breeze.
How long can I keep this up?
What could be better?
Even when I’m not thinking about food,
I’m thinking about food.
I’m feeling the pulsations,
the vibrations of phantom food
The word “chicken”
becomes a mantra.
like bloody daggers in Macbeth.
It seems fitting in old age
to return to an oral stage
when food was of
and time was structured
When you looked
at every object and wondered—
edible or not.
There I was—
my own business.
scanning every item
in my body
and sorting them
into bins of seeing,
hearing, feeling, thinking.
Labeling every thought
leaves little time to think them,
which is probably for the best.
Labeling every pain or sensation
can sometimes make them disappear.
Perhaps they were in your mind after all,
whatever that means.
I wonder what will become of me
and my ambition.
Not living—but labeling.
Not lost in thought—
just thinking, thinking.
Choosing the Hot Seat
Ignored the shade
in favor of
the ass, still warm,
the whole park
“I Saw Delight”*
I walked straight into the day’s diamond mine,
stuffing my eyes with as much dazzle
as would fit in the back pockets of my brain
and the dingy tote bag of my body.
The shadows were dark and luxurious
beneath silver trestles of light.
I saw a woman carrying the trophy of a gold balloon,
letting it bounce lightly above her head—
her thoughts golden.
Someone else was walking a diamond dog.
Each of its hairs was polished to perfection.
From every object, prisms of paths opened.
Where did they all lead?
Why would anyone want to be anyplace but here?
*The title is a one-line poem by Robert Creeley: “Homage to Hank Williams.”