Café Brûlot
It is not from the mind alone—
the chemical impulses
washed by the heavy,
monotonous
rain of symbolism
(society and all its mass
manufactured
archetypes [infr astructure
for the thought]) —
that I know anything,
but by the moral implication that seeps
forth; seeding into my judgment;
rooting in my amygdalae;
branching in arborescent,
pinnate sensations;
blooming where life
begins to find me.
Where sound turns
to color, and color
turns to touch, and
touch turns to an
oscillating god
between my fingertips,
I impress myself upon the world,
a laconic wash
of unblue waves
caressing me
while we play like stars
reflecting on the sea.
And in that moment—
where logic ceases to apply,
ceases to clamber, clamoring
for the rising tension
of a feverish pitch,
sounding in the abyss
of ontic time—
in that moment—
where I am intoxicated by
the passing brush
of fire on/in my skin—
in that moment,
be my anima,
I, your animus,
and let us join,
body syntonic,
tracing each self in the chasms
where no one else
dares to go.
poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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