Fata Organa
Shopping—
small store (cashier standing)
I approach (hoping purchases
[make {awkward}
conversation {sweating
palms, conservative social
situation: standard;
no response} enjambment-
laden,
soaked in neritic {subconsciously}
turf where
pelagic shorelines
{surf} crest in my muddled
mind, and why?
{analog dialog scrambled
in the digital
culture's cellophane:
mellowing stasis,
static, pigeonholed
in the first impression,
apologetic/lysergic self-
deprecation} yeah, why? ]
oh, why?) dream
of mech purchases and dragon skulls
(free with games)
in the basement, help me
find
what
I lost because
I lost it then (
lost in the dreamscape
[snow storms, blizzard
slush smothering my
eyelids
{
sight
blurred because the frozen
ocean slurs from cloud
to ground; from sky to
fall; drowning epoch elicitied
}
liquid polluted]—
warmth of a cat in a
freshly-pressed towel,
yet wringing
in my larynx,
lungs, half-
heart,
gray matter gone white)
biodegradable, waiting
to become fertilizer
to nourish the zymic
impulses, instincts
clawing through me.
Stimpack stimulation, repair
the bear-trap ridden limbs,
salvage the wasteland,
wrecked dross ( glossing
[carcass out of
casket]
) . Don't scoff,
my thoughts aloft; time is
tapered together, tethered,
tangled, drifting
knots, tightened strings in
boiling water (hot [turning
soft], loose coils
curling over my synaptic
triggers, saying,) :
Me: Shoot, shoot, shoot—
leave me with a placebo headwound.
You: Sure, if that's what you want me to do!
Me: Shoot, shoot, shoot—
freak out in a moonage daydream… oh, yeah!
My deluded hallucination
lasts for five seconds
and I wonder—
what am I saying?
what am I saying?
All I'm saying is
it'd be lovely to
talk to lovely you.
Caveat emptor:
well, everything….
and honestly I don't know
what to do.
The surrealist syllables
seem clearer than conversation
ever could.
This tilt shift
I call life,
inconsequential—
I am an extra
(in the film of your life)
talking to himself in his
head, invisibly vibrating
in the mania of making
comforting mantras
that should ease talking to you,
but don't
(and such is sonder) —
In the sprawl
Of the world surrounding me.
what am I saying?
what am I saying?
that I have
paranoia that permeates;
that I have an ache
of displacement and distance;
that I feel like a note
in an arpeggio—
a broken chord
awaiting alignment—
hey, what am I saying?
what am I saying?
I don't know….
Fission mailed.
"So…. you work here, huh? "
"Just take my cash! "
poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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