Nobody's creekbed

songs, prayers, poetry, stories, art, photographs, moving pictures, fondnesses, tall-tales and meditations

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The Anterior Insula and Hwy W

Friday, October 14, 2005

the lost continent

living from hand to mouth. he feels the dull fingers of a stroke working under his scalp. he fills himself with toxins and in the mirror's reflection he sees facial pores, gaping holes in the face. what he sees he sees a face that as a child he attributed to lousy, unkempt adults, people who seem to kind of puff out at their unclear boundaries, blinking often and in a vague, unseemly manner. his nose is getting bigger--just as the noses of these strange denizen always seemed to loom largely on the face. nose and eyes and pores. almost nothing but. blackheads. dandruff. rings bruisy under the eye gapes. to hold his face in his hands, smell his hands smelling his face.