What the body knows it tells, #108

Once the lights switch on, no dream,
which is nothing more than light
played out on the cinema
screen of the lidback of eyes,
can stand. At first it loses
focus, blurring the edges
as muscles squint, orient
the lenses of the retina.
By then the walls offer no
contrast and the images
on the screen are rapidly
disappearing phantasms.

In the control room, neurons
in hardhats scatter to catch
the exposed footage, hide it
from the disastrous light,
piece together the story.
They muster the transcribers
to take down verbatim, word
for word, what was said. And when
that attempt fails, they mass
the artists to paint, draw, sculpt
a masterpiece, edifice
of the collage perishing.

We’re left with note cards, yellow
tape, endowments for Shamans
to tour the brain and lecture
masterfully on the lost
archives, on the artifacts
we’ve been able to collect
and what they mean. A raindrop
but not storms, a pirate’s hat,
a bucket of rust, apples,
both green, cider and golden,
the bones of our narrator,
a small boy, long since decayed.

The Shamans share the story,
the mythologies of dreams,
of this dream and label it
visions, quaint, false deities
of an uneducated
mind. They speak of images
as icons and the objects
as suggestions of unkempt
and scattered thought. They suggest
the narrator man child
represents pre-pubescence
and non-sexual longing.

They call the raindrop a tear
and the multicolored fruits
as the possibilities,
gay, straight and bisexual,
of someone not yet entered
in an adolescent phase.
The pail of rust is clearly
the skin of a loved one carried
off to the burial mound
and the pirate’s hat displays
an undoubted obsessive
passion for all things jaunty.

This be the tale told by
academics, the brain parts
that went off to state college
and got all buffed on steroids
of thoughts and conversations
who came home dressed all fancy
and using all them big words
them folks at colleges use.
It’s much worse than all that.
The dream was a vision not
of what came, nor the future,
but the lore of the body.

What the body knows it tells,
when the thinkers will listen,
when the sirens are silenced,
when all the politicians
stop campaigning. What the brain
knows it hides for safety
of its own authority.
The boy is the inner most
body, soft tissue, muscles
of the heart and lungs being
invaded by a foreign
body, a growing cancer.

In a situation room
neurons with stars adorning
their chests run simulations,
war games on big screens
against enemies foreign
and domestic, insurgents
proven to be organized,
well prepared and well funded.
The pirate hat, the bucket,
the raindrop and the apples.
Sins, regrets, decay, an urge
to fight atop rugged seas.

Once the lights switch on, no dream,
which plays out solely a hope
for salvation, redemption
from the years spent and wasted,
from the secrets and scripts
read from to stash our broken
bones and broken promises,
can stand. Bodies don’t forget.
Dreams do not remain silent.
The dreams tell what the body
knows, what the body will soon,
in the daylight, reveal.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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