Language Spreads Like a Patch of Oil

Describing my sensations (daily):

Dry water to loosin’ joints and invigorate lips,

hands tremble, vibrations echo in the blood of the beholder.

Shaking in breath, bones, tremors of stimulation,

the flux between zen and anxiety (it’s perpetual).

 

Hands,

lingering scent of garlic on fingertips,

prints engraved with oil

metal shavings,

scummy scalp,

and greasy hair rests of forehead like sweet exhaustion.

Gas fills the air as sparks fly,

unsafe while touching, moving,

turning and spinning and twisting

bending, burning,

and finally,

sleep.

 

Dreams swirl like honey, thick relaxation,

but sometimes they poke, aggravate

deep rooted neurosis,

manifested in repetitious motions

of the day,

over and over

a sharp pain in the spine

over and over.

Is this everything, eternity?

 

Awaking to sweet beans, an energizing elixir

to tighten up and speed through.

 

Electrified heat,

melting into spontaneous forms,

unnatural bliss,

connection is necessary for production,

producing moments of pure intuition

understanding: I can control lightning.

It vibrates with caffeinated blood,

the power in dirt-fingers (I can see my ancestors through my fingertips).

Dancing in rhythm with steel and gas and heat

the mysterious inner workings of machines.

In the air the taste of rust,

feeling micro particles graze skin, abrasive

but craving the itch of heat, the pain of the push,

the satisfaction of seeing.

 

I wonder about the things I do not know,

they tumble around inside the skull,

gather and form into a landscape of

fantastic visions.

 

Aware of the air movements of ghosts

melt in a silent tension,

stretch in relaxed, smoky air.