Logic is a Trickster

Now                think            upon            emotions

from                outside        looking         in

perceiving       my               logic            defective

this                 box              contains       boxes

Metapsychology

Social importance.
versus personal priorites.
Cognitive decisions versus gut inclinations.
Biased to choose one over the other,
as each would choose itself.
Forced to comply and to assume each other
As worthy of my attention as any.
Learn to communicate.
Understand, I implore…
Each is meaningless without all four.

On Life, and Fiction

My life is a long, slow work of fiction,
but without an author.
My story is in the hands of the protagonist;
it’s up to me to find patterns and meaning,
to casually acquire information that might later become critical.
I sift through the characters and choose which ones to explore.
I decide when to be curious, and what about…
which opportunities to pursue, and which to ignore.
I control the conflicts,
and the settings,
and the moods.
And I’ll weave them all together into one central theme,
whatever that may be, and then my purpose
will be clear.
My story will unfold.
The final resolution will be told.
And, with all the pieces fallen rightly into place,
it will end.

Leaving you, the reader, hopefully,
dying to read it again.

Idle

Collapse
to the dusty floor of your head.
It’s musty in there, and the air smells
like something long dead.

Dream
of waking on a sunny morning,
with the warmth from the window
wafting across your feather bed.
Kiss your love good morning
as you sit up,
and breathe…
And life courses through you,
and you feel the warm vibrations
and the subtle fluctuations
in your veins.
Breathe…

And then your body breaks
from the pressure
of the image in your head.
Sleep,
until your body wakes;
Rusty, tired, and underfed.

Hayden

She had a fingernail stuck in the bow in her hair.
She had a number on her back and she was sitting there,
paying all attention to the numbers up in front.
Laying all her cards upon the table and she’s done.
It’s hard to tell the story at the time and place we’re in.
They thought they all would watch and listen
to the numbers,
even dumber than they were before.
They could be four, but really everyone wants
to be one.
And so did she.
But she was chewing on her pencil and gazing into space,
biting on her fingernails and rubbing on her face.
She can’t help but doodle numbers;
she can’t help but find a place,
a better place.
Any place.
All places are better than this place
if you’re in that state of head.
If you’re home alone in bed instead,
Or, like she said,
She scratched herself! It’s crazy like,
that never happens.
Never.