Monday, September 05, 2005


What we have seen and heard over these past few days has been horrible.  For the next twelve hours, I am going to focus on my sense of touch.  Nothing else.

The Mourning After

Sense of touch scintillates upward, the dorsal columns of my spine
Parietal lobes are soothed by the texture of twine
The data indicate baling twine is coarse, a bit prickly, but also smooth in spots
Twine holds the hay, which is needed, by those who depend upon me

Biceps and deltoids contract, I feel them opposing the weight
Cerebellum coordinates the yin and yang of muscle groups
It is pleasing that the muscles dance together, so perfectly, despite gravity
I know that, because of this dance, those who depend can be nourished

I decide to dare, to see what is before me
Rods and cones delight the occipital lobes
Layers of water vapor, fog, have settled between the hills
The water brings sustenance, which is needed, by the farmland around me

Rays of the sun, they dash slantwise over the horizon
Retinas dutifully report via the first cranial nerve
Stalks of wheat, amber, waving in the cool gentle breeze
The dew settles on them, also cooling, also sustaining them

I do not dare, to see what is beyond this horizon

(Note: The Rest of the Story/Corpus Callosum has moved. Visit the new site here.)
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