31.3.015

It is Now that I pontificate upon the totality of Forever--

its clutches settling slowly into the corded nape of my neck, seeping
into the synapses therein,
to rest there like listeria:
a slow paralysis.

Drugged and dosed:
some wayward child facing
a child-hood feverdream
(serial surgeries, scalpels removing
and giving new order;
sterile barbs and firepokers,
[so cold and unkind, themselves]
prodding without relent:
carefully reshaping, though they do not care)
with the perennial ticking
of the ole ticker's bloodflow:
reminding without relent.

The weight of passing days, undifferentiated,
sinks
ever-further
in;
with a digitalis-sweetness,
lacing the nape of the neck

(toxins):

a glaze of pyritic myelin
(sticky acid in wax's stead)
permitting the dissemination of the electricity therein,
the ions' communications tissue-dissipated
(a shame).

What once may have been
a message of storms, a din
of forked lightning
racing to the brain:
it comes unbundled as heat
in the nape of the neck;
from heat, to dread at the base of the skull;
and from dread to dead-silence,
no-feeling,
stillness.

It is Now that I ponder the reality of Forever--
with the absence of bygone moments
boring into the nape of my neck,
and a lulling hum-- the buzz of thoughts
without escape-- to fill the space

above the base of my skull.