Friday, January 13, 2017

THIS IS YOUR BRAIN

This morning,
I am the bright
dominion of mind—limitless, immeasurable;

where ideals
are solid—and comfortable
as furniture.
Abstraction is the only thing
that's pure,
and purity is actual here.

The only way I'll ever
abide imperfection
is,

one day, somehow
some way, to not be
connected to this
body anymore.

*

By noon,
I've become the subject.
Hard working, like one of
Van Gogh's peasants,
I'm all-curves and corners;

I'm bone. I'm your
pit sweat and toe-jam,
your muscle and ligaments.

And I've been rigorously
conditioned to believe—

things aren't too bad
if I choose not
to count
those things
which are
any worse than that.

*

But when the day ends
and night comes,

it's dark again; there's no colors
at all,

and I no longer
see how—

the world outside
could have any corners.

Inside, it's Freedom.
It's Possibility; all that yin
and yang energy swirling
around each other (or whatever.)

It's—
lucky, lucky,
lucky me:

I have a mind. Cool.
I have a body. Wow.

But I—the I
that is doing

the talking—I

am neither of those things
right now.

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