My Prism

With personal boundaries,

every thing is looked at

as separate.

I am handed mirror-like objects,

where I am looking at it

but then, it is looking back at me.

These keys of transformation pass

right through my hands

but I am not finding them.

Candid self-conversations

give me new directions

though I do not follow

very well in deed.

I am able to identify

prominent stuff

that truly means nothing.

I can name all the colors

I see as immediately fascinating

but that soon fades.

My body is an anchor

so easily slipping away

unless I touch or am touched.

Senses seem to have trap doors,

suddenly giving or taking away.

I use imaginary string

to tie most thoughts in sequence

that is if I loop and knot

then I have short-term memory,

if I simply encircle

then I forget in the forward flow.

I am not sure anything ever repeats.

Blink and it rarely reappears.

My greet is simply clutching things

before they innocently 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 fading phantom

if I have no movement.

This scares me

into violent inward gestures

that keep me awake.

I wish for fast spinning road tires

speedily bearing down

and running as me at sixty.

I am a rocky point

at a constant downdraft

of cold air violently rising.

I am forgetful silverware

out of order

in every drawer that opens.

I am a sadistic keyboard

filled with simple circular smiles

along the sidewalls of each key.

Clouds pass over in code

but I am not able to decipher.

Everything I am constantly aware of

has imposed limits I don’t understand.

I feel like I am always downstream

reaching back for something attracting.

There are these

mind grabbing post cards

but they are glued to a rack as samples.

Identity is merely applied paint.

Sleep gives no relief

to this lucid view.

What I recognize as cogent,

I can’t fully focus upon.

Life’s rainbow Popsicle

leaves for me stick remains.

Everything is jewelry

but not really to wear.

I am easily captured by motion.

These gallows are anything new

stoically staring back at me.

They obscenely yell

their colors at me.

Their shapes falsely abuse

my expectations.

I tried to hide from my inner voice

to escape from engagement.

But I am a prisoner of this prism,

confined on cloud nine.