I

I feel a lot like there’s a nail
Buried in the gap between the
Two cortices of my brain.
Right in that space, that dense fiber—
I forget what it’s called—that connects the left and the right,
Facilitates the transfer of
Sanity from one end of your boat
To the other.

Corpus collosum.

Which to any other mind might be
The name of a many-tentacled
Many-mouthed monster.

Collosum. Corpus.
Corpse. Collosal.

I feel I have a nail buried right
There, 4 inches, rusty, end point
Conducting electric signals,
Imagine, that needle point where
Electric signals suddenly
Fizz
Like a failed lightning rod.

II

I can’t tell you how all your voices are
To me like the scratchings of many tiny
Nail-points on a sheet of beaten metal.
Tiny little scratches,
The sound old records make under a needle skid.

Everyday.
Your voices.

Can you imagine? The skidding scratching,
Little insect noises you make,
How it balloons in the space between my
Ears, amplified, the fingernails on
Beaten metal, every single day.

My body is the soft-tissued temple to
Your every word. I am filled with
Your noise, it resonates in my skull,
In my ribcage.
My body remains,
Passive, absorbent of this noise.
There are no more thoughts behind
My eyes but the constant static
Buzz of the reflections, reverberations
Of your most holy voice.

III

In this space I have moved to,
Sound is nothing to me now.
All noises come from the same frequency
The same pitch plays on every channel,
And it’s a constant, whining, held
ee-ee-eeee.
The highest note of a cricket song reproduced
Forever.
Otherwise, this space is silent.

In this space I have moved to,
Taste is nothing to me now.
I could, on my hands and knees,
Taste the grime off the floor and
Find it as sweet as food or drink.
It is logical to me,
Finding nutrient on the floor,
Painting the dust with my tongue.
When I swallow, it’s all the same,
It’s all umami and sweet and sour
And bitter and salty,
On my lips, on my tongue, in my throat.
Otherwise, there is no flavor
In this place.

In this space I have moved to,
Touch is nothing to me now.
I have vague memories of pain,
How it is to snap the finger bone so that
A rush fills the body, and one
Is hot and cold at the same time.
Energy flows through one’s every
Muscle, one cries out, one bleeds.

There are memories too, of pleasure,
Of the highest crest of feeling
On waves of firm, moving, warm
Fingers, the universe introduced by a
Pair of hands, lips, a single tongue,
The noises they make, hot breath,
The undulations of bodies.

Now
In this place, all is numbness.
Pleasure and pain are distant,
Hollow noises barely remembered by
My skin. I strain to remember,
To go back to that time, out
Of this space,
And I strain, but I fear that
Time is gone.

IV

Where am I now?
I feel I am far, far away, where
Neither noise or touch or taste can
Reach me, floating out somewhere in a
Void bereft of stars.
At the same time, I am here,
Only inside. Deep, deep inside.
So far inside, so far, far
Away, and this darkness inside of
Me has no more stars than the
Nether ends of the universe.
It is lonely in this place.
All I can hear is myself, and
My own self is rapidly becoming,
Oh god,
Tiresome company.