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,
empathy.

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.
—ECW

irrelevant

Blurry Long Distance Road at Night

These next few moves matter
this I know to be true
that the distance between us
grows stiff with years
and we are different now,
and we have never been this
way—far away; chasing the tail
of our twenties. I am something
in between this and then
and these next few moves speak volumes
thousands of expired encyclopedias
are shouting wait Wait WAIT!
but we are on an airplane
and the wheels are up
and our phones are off
and the last thing I said was I’m sorry
but I can’t remember what for
these next few moves matter
they are the scribble
with which we write our lives
and these are not apologies
as much as manafestos.
and these next few moves
are happening outside my body
a reflex, a habit, a whole.

—ECW

Draft – teeth

image

Even teeth grow back
eventually
Over the long miles
glacier runoff
book spines
even teeth grow back
when we’ve run them over
and over and over
in our mouths
wording, nuance
the times you say we
to make a point.
Teeth ground down to
the root resurface
one at a time
then all at once
a mouth full of opinions
a crooked willful smile
–ECW

Library poem 1

Vanessa please don’t bless me
Don’t lay down a prayer in my name
Don’t deem my unpainted toes divine
Don’t wallow in your gratitude.

Vanessa please don’t praise me
Don’t sing your relief in alto
Don’t write me sonnets of self
Loathing. This is my job Vanessa

And this is my name tag, don’t
Clasp my hands and beg my forgiveness
Vanessa, and end each sentence
With my name. Don’t thank me

More than the usual, cordial grateful
But aloof thank-you of a not so
Invested adult. Vanessa. Let’s be adults
About all this computer shit, it’s fine.

Vanessa please don’t wrap your hands together and thank god for me,
For doing the things I do for everyone,
For strangers, Vanessa, it’s just my job.
–ECW

Poem 139

i have been a little overwhelmed lately, but made a moment to jot down a poem. it feels better when spoken aloud:

[Dislexia]

Numbers are a rhythm and I feel them in my bones

They mean nothing,

they are out of their order

they are hissing like bluecrabs

My boss says I’m no good at this desk job, my boss says pay more attention.

I am all done doting (add) and my mind is elsewhere—we go away

From the white walls and the cold calls when business makes us angry

—It’s just numbers, how can numbers make anyone anything but money—

It’s not just numbers it’s the shore rolling over and over

Hight-tide-noon low-tide5’15.

I am certain the moon does not keep a calendar

I am certain the ocean is without a ledger.

But the numbers always follow

Like a hangover, rolling frothy wide, a thick-glide of algae-weed.

In the evening I try to account hours, work and play—eight trips to the toilet.

I wonder if the toilet keeps a ledger. I don’t do Sudoku in the bathroom anymore:

I could count to 9 and have only 8 numbers—012345679—damn, I’m sure I’m dislexic,

               //I spell it wrong every time//

I find the best solution is to shrug and evoke my gender.

I am allowed to be bad at cars and math, and sometimes at driving.

But I better dress well,

I want to rush into the wade-pool naked—disrupt all the hermits in their conch shells.

I wish food was my only concern and not numbers. I am bad at finances, so I evoke my

Dislexia and tell my father, who has lent me—once again—money that: I am a poet.

Which absolves me of resource, I say, I will be immortal, he says, pay more attention, I say…

Daddy, and lie.

—ECW