This brain feels papery

and brittle;

an old wasp's nest

out in the barn,

suspended in amnesia,

hidden in dust and silence

and yesteryear;

an unknown place in space

Organic,

on a lower level,

in a sharper resolution,

is mechanic;

reveals its mechanic character,

is impersonality

under evolutionary AI guidance:

The Machine for Making No Sense,

slowly lifting the veil of identity,

the tightness of here;

grinding it down

into a vibrating none-at-all totality,

nowhere special,

whispering

on the edge of phonemes and semantics,

meaning fracturing like drying mud

in African draughts;

wars obviously as biological as pandemics,

the free-flowing and undecided opinion

of sentience

grasping for forward time

to sink into,

no matter how intimidating;

bodies wasting away

in disorder

and wrathful stenches

Strange Attractor by David Lee Myers

lifts me out of myself;

my self an old place,

a port for the leaving,

the refined substance of a life

lifted like steel out of iron ore,

like a poem out of an alphabet,

love out of bland notions;

death out of something unnecessary,

strong black coffee out of a mug;

this one moment out of eternity

It's long since now,

but somewhere in the distance

an ever greater part of Swami Sune's indecision

and meaninglessness

turned, sector by sector, into death,

and now, at age 76,

even his name has begun to crumple;

his breath that of manure

No matter

how good you may think a word of art,

of music, is,

you just sit it out;

you're outside,

you consume,

you are a hungry ghost;

your brain is burning waste,

your heart is thumping in the distance

like a fishing boat in the mist