from fine, conductive wires hang
my vestigial sense organs
straining to perceive
radiations not meant for them

across this space
my parts are scattered:
here my mummified lungs
well preserved from exposure
to too much winter air,
and there my crude,
prototype voice-box
lays silent

this room is too well lit to be frightening
but something tells me to get out while i still can
i’d be better off outside with sunshine,
junk mail and street signs,
than in here with these throwback
mutant hopes

caressing my vine-like nerves
i plug them into the wall-socket
laugh madness as that voice-box
chitters inconsistencies
(plural singularities
overcoming gravity
friction in a vacuum)
the postulates of a physics
not meant for the human universe
spreading
(geometrically,
exponentially)
the leaps and bounds of electrons
pain and pleasure
the conflicting polarities of two ions
bent on mutually assured destruction

bones and muscles arranged in ways
not compatible with my human frame
glands, ducts and nerves endings
receive messages too honest
for the human mind
i, a dumb child
experiencing pain for the first time
and not grasping the meaning

unable to overcome a process
possessed with eons of inertia,
i find myself outside
junk mail and street signs
shivering in the sunshine

09/24/2002

Author's Note: sometimes, the viruses and enzymes in my cells, that make my life possible, sing to me of times when they were kings, times when i was a hopeless worm, prey to beings that we humans don't have the heart or stomach to even imagine.

Posted on 09/24/2002
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