My Prismatic life

With personal items,

every thing is a separate

mirror-like object.

Looking at them,

is them looking back

at my looking.

Keys pass through my hands

but not for opening

or for finding.

Candid self-conversations

give new directions,

though they too

are not followed very well.

In every deed,

I am able to identify

most things immediately

as stuff

that truly means nothing.

I can name

all the colors I see before me

as fascinating

but that soon fades.

My body is a floating island

anchored

and ever slipping away

unless I touch with my senses

frequently.

These senses are trap doors

suddenly giving or taking away.

I use imaginary string

to tie most of my thoughts

into sequences,

if I loop and knot

then short-term memory,

if I simply encircle,

I forget in the ongoing flow.

I am not sure

anything ever repeats.

Blink and it rarely reappears.

Even we are now

somewhere else.

My greet is simple

yet I am clutching at things

and then they vanish.

I sense I am an incessant

and embarrassed about that.

When there are quiet times

I feel I am being punished.

I become a phantom

if I have no movement.

It scares me

and that keeps me

wide-eyed and awake.

I wish for

fast spinning road tires,

bearing down

and running me at sixty.

I am a rocky point

against a constant downdraft

of cold air.

I am forgetful silverware

out of order

in every open drawer.

I am a sadistic keyboard

full of simple circular smiles

hidden on the side walls

of each key unexposed

except by playing

the adjacent key

which then is hidden behind

by the finger

pressing down that next key.

Clouds pass by in code

but I am not able to respond.

Everything solid in its form

has imposed limits.

I am always downstream,

reaching back.

These post cards of the mind

are glued to a rack as samples.

Identity is merely applied paint.

Sleep gives no relief

to this lucid view,

I am just then

staring at the glass

and not through it.

What I recognize

I can’t fully focus upon

to confirm or deny.

Life’s rainbow Popsicle

leaves me stick remains.

All is jewelry

but not really to wear.

I am captured by motion

that is not my own.

These gallows are anything new,

staring back.

They sort of yell their colors.

Their shapes falsely abuse

my expectations.

I tried to hide from my voice

to escape from everything

confined on cloud nine.

Such is my prismatic life . . .