The View from the Quartz Submarine

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.

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The View from the Quartz Submarine

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