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Tuesday, August 20, 2002

That Guy in NY

The recording light is on
I’m seeing from your eyes
a moving x-ray inside your body too.
Your sweat smells like mine.
Our connectors sprout out
cords from skill to art
fitting into strangely shaped
synaptic swirls of
improbable possibility.
The sound of your voice shows me.
The empty places between words
Where your pathways are on fire,
a maze chess game, but
you’re not a traditional player.
Now you can follow me.
I could heal you
if you would let me
unsettle you.