Acute Pressure

Dear Dr Molsmon's

blue eyes were backlit.

Blacklit room square and sunken,

with me like a dart
board in the middle.

Light as a feather stiff as a rock,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

on a table, halfway between

the ceiling and the floor.

Tiny silver pinpricks -
chinese needles asterisks
mark the pain

I couldn't feel if I didn't look.

Make yourself so heavy that you are

dripping down like tree sap, slowly sinking

beneath the table into your own tree roots.

He said.

Was there something you forgot

to tell me?

No doctor, what we see is what we get.

  

Doctor, I haven't stopped unraveling
since that time.
Wherever stillness settles in,
movement mixes in my
body sepulchre chamber
for a phoenix
rising in heat and ashes -
mad thrashing wings
crashing into things
is what happens if
fire says she'd really
rather be water today.

Seated unseated,
setting and a rose,
these lines pulsing from a heart beat
up the spine accross the wingspan
and out the fingertips
dripping like warm a current
electric, soft glow.

Plug in, baby.
Mirrors melt as glass does,
so do I.
Be a dear,
caught in the forest,
not in the head lights.


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