This man in my mind's eye
Brandon Boyd's Anna-Molly,
"In all likeliness, she doesn't really exist."
He is a magnetic anomaly…
I cannot seem to shake him,
These electromagnetic waves vibrate,
My teeth crashing and chattering against each other,
My eyesight trembling, a quivering image on television screens, three, four, or more, stacked atop each other, bricks of media towering to the sky,
And each screen displaying the mad circus
Where Ferris wheels run backwards, and clowns speak in Latin, Carpe Diem!
But his face is plastered over every screen in one split minute,
That’s 30 seconds for me to collect myself for a vision of my want.
Rocks, tectonic plates shift on the ocean’s floor
And Tides gently caress parched, sandy shores
One need met,
By the plastic wall of media,
To see his face,
His strange, straining, calling out…
Look
His voice?
Maybe a deep growl from a sea volcano in long hibernation.
Friendly or foe-like, perhaps the world is his enemy
Or his oyster.
What I would give to be that tiny grain of sand,
Lying deep within the folds and warmth
Of his layers, and layers.
To peel each onion skin away,
Would be to unearth, me, his pearl within.
What a wish, a dream, a wandering fantasy in a thoughtless, mundane moment,
My folly is that I ask too much.
I offer my thanks for an ordinary life.
To dream of faraway things, perhaps allows me a different appreciation of the world.
Perhaps I should see some of what it offers,
And perhaps my anomalous one, my poet, aspiring oyster,
Will fade into the white noise of an untuned channel
On a forgotten television set.
"In all likeliness, she doesn't really exist."
He is a magnetic anomaly…
I cannot seem to shake him,
These electromagnetic waves vibrate,
My teeth crashing and chattering against each other,
My eyesight trembling, a quivering image on television screens, three, four, or more, stacked atop each other, bricks of media towering to the sky,
And each screen displaying the mad circus
Where Ferris wheels run backwards, and clowns speak in Latin, Carpe Diem!
But his face is plastered over every screen in one split minute,
That’s 30 seconds for me to collect myself for a vision of my want.
Rocks, tectonic plates shift on the ocean’s floor
And Tides gently caress parched, sandy shores
One need met,
By the plastic wall of media,
To see his face,
His strange, straining, calling out…
Look
His voice?
Maybe a deep growl from a sea volcano in long hibernation.
Friendly or foe-like, perhaps the world is his enemy
Or his oyster.
What I would give to be that tiny grain of sand,
Lying deep within the folds and warmth
Of his layers, and layers.
To peel each onion skin away,
Would be to unearth, me, his pearl within.
What a wish, a dream, a wandering fantasy in a thoughtless, mundane moment,
My folly is that I ask too much.
I offer my thanks for an ordinary life.
To dream of faraway things, perhaps allows me a different appreciation of the world.
Perhaps I should see some of what it offers,
And perhaps my anomalous one, my poet, aspiring oyster,
Will fade into the white noise of an untuned channel
On a forgotten television set.