the needle
a long
and next
the drill
with its
many min-
ature bits
not sharp
but whirring
like a light
sings on the
eye, brightly.
They hand me
to numb the

I am reminded
of diamonds
with two sets
of hands
in my mouth,
the assistant
takes and
offers tools
with her
littlest finger
while the doctor
wields the drill/
diamonds are cut
by other
the strongest bones
in my body
are cut like
slightly, just
a little at a time.

I could fall
asleep if not
for the drill
and the vacuum
and the banter
above me,
over which
makes for the
A chuckle,
a shrug,
were they
the assistant
and her pinky,
the doctor
and his drill
in my mouth
bite down
he says
either side
does it
feel any

With Aura

How can I simplify
the set of lines running,
binding what is perhaps
a probability, to the reality
of me. Nerves that never
cross come in contact
with pulses, which are,
perhaps, thoughts or maybe
words that carry with them
the weight of language,

This roots my migraines.

I cannot fathom the mind
with my mind. Maybe this
is the true hope of computing
to see through object
lenses a sense of human
unburdened by ourselves.
I would not imagine
that each cell is itself
a star, but I have heard that,
in passing, that the brain
lights up more connections
than stars, even though
we are uncertain how many
that might be.

This fuels my migraine.

Still I am uncertain of the soul
but have most certainly
seen it from the left side
washing over what is real,
perhaps, or maybe not real
in the least, a gesture
of light that beckons away
or might not beckon at all,
I just see it that way. I have
seen the soul, or maybe
my own soul departing,
returning again and again.

This shapes my migraine.

I know less, it seems,
in the morning
when the narrow
pulses have passed
and even these miniature
symphonies have ceased.
I am quiet.
As is the migraine.
Which is not separate,
as much,
from me ,
as I might have hoped.
I am the migraine.
Which now, it seems,
is not so imminent
to cure.