freudian blip

a kind of reconfiguration is in progress. bits of wires, their ends bitten and exposed, are being sucked apart from old nodes and applied to new ones. this way the next time energy flows, it will strike at the right circuit, in the right measure. so i'll absorb less, and reflect more. sigh less and blink more. most tinfoil loyalties can be blown away with a blink.

you ain't never caught no rabbit and you ain't no fren' oh mine

recently had a dark-as-a-ditch dream about having gotten a lobotomy. in the dream, the skull was carved open neatly and the operation - to cure depression - was carried out successfully with the insertion of a coin-sized electricity-discharge thingie, within the folds of the brain. the only hitch being, after the operation, the head was to be kept vertical at all times, or the top would roll off.

you know how you're playing the And What Does This Mean game even in your dreams?

the immediate association was, emily dickinson. If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.

but nothing in the current reading material fits this descrip. the five senses haven't reported anything fantastic either, lately. if to be inspired is to be alive, then i'm being jiggled out of an urn, bored to bits.

if it isn't poetry, it must be lack of. like remembering the meter and forgetting the rhyme. the rise and fall, the dip and drawl, the whisper and squall, but not the goddamn words