the tongue only tap dances
to the impatient rational mind.
gut wrenching occurs
when the words don’t come blaring out.
couldn’t passably say what is meant,
since the mean out there already overwhelms it.
some how the gravity pressure feels more severe
as if 2000 feet below the sea level of stress.
limbs have lost their incentive to function
in service to the expression of the body.
it all feels like tunnel vision
but the tunnel is only half dug
into the dark of the mountain.
there is a faceless crowd waiting for an arrival.
they are all spectators, not artists,
to the nude model posing.
there is nothing quite so frustrating
as chasing after the butterfly of happiness
when the creature is so invisible to the naked eye.
we all might as well stay in our tent of self-consciousness,
lay down, eyes closed, attempt relaxation,
assume the joy of the melodic surround of sounds
imposing their cacophony
on our otherwise captivated selves.
for it is a free-fall of animated sensory intake
and we, as jugglers of notedness,
can hum up and murmur a theme
that makes it all seem
like the child’s play of privacy,
while being both at the circus
and be the circus itself,
on play before us, yet as us.
and no one,
outside of our own head of captivating conclusions,
is the wiser . . .
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