lit, this cerebral water runs as fast as a one-night stand,
as quick as champignons popping out of my other brain,
the country of scientific soup I always want served
warm in my study while reading my 4-year old, newly
discovered piscine knowledge of statuesque catatonia,
such perfect softness I cannot hide from the world.
Secrets? They’re meant to catch the same rain flooding
the head, but not the heart overflowing with lyrical measure
poised between the pulsing night and fishing—
which is a heavenly option for both relationships
and creativity starting to set fire at four in the morning.
By creativity I mean I have never gone fishing
on that left brain pond by the hairy woods; I go hunting
perhaps chasing a numero uno animal counted out
and beaten down by the human mind’s logic,
a calculation of some sort, as if a wrestler smartly tapping
out to save ideas swimming through my right brain lake.