Fish movement is incomprehensible
below the surface.
Floating suspension,
suspended flotation,
or maybe a combination as
their east-west eyes search my face
for fishiness, for relation,
or do their aquatic vision bulges
search me for edibility?
What else could I be to them?
When I stop I really keep moving and this baffles me.
Walking, were I to stop, I’m never really still,
never completely composed, something is still
happening, moving, shifting.
Neurons and synapses and those things
chemistry was supposed to implant in
your mental grey matter.
Really, what was high school
when I can’t remember anything
but my teacher’s wheezing
and my acne
and ended friendships,
sports triumphs,
failures,
stunted relationships,
broken communication networks.
Blood pumps with enough pressure to
jettison streams up to 30 feet,
across a room maybe, down
a hallway, toward the ceiling,
the utmost in human impressionistic art
made organic, biotic,
a trace.
If everything stopped when I stop
walking I would die.
Despite my blocked dreams of absolute rest
I allow my body to move me into
moment two, three, four,
and tomorrow.
