plausible stab

[saw]

the poet needs more....
more than stale memories
stacked in cranial corners
to sift through when all the synapses are dressed up
and humming like electric bumble bees
when the neural engine revs
and the sparks are sufficient to fire up
an old brain searching through rust
in the salty air, the slow march,
the oxidation of tissue. the weeping amygdala
the lagging cerebellum, the stumbles.....
the poet understands he must try to document,
despite his sluggish hippocampus
his transmission with slipping gears....
the poet resists, writes his silly accounts
makes lists, then forgets to take them to the store.....
momentum stalls
like dead wind to a man with a sexy new kite
who longs for energy that doesn't come in a bottle,
there's a pallor in the mirror,
his chest is split right down the middle
as if there was a metamorphosis or something,
in the bathroom fog the poet makes a plausible stab

[mtmynd]

bleeding the truth makes us realize
we're alive knowing how to live a better life,
a fresh, newer life that offers greater understanding.