Powder

Powder

When I open my head and peek inside,
I notice only the rusty hinge that thirsts for grease—
and powder where my brain should be.
I am not alarmed.
So speaks the worth of intelligence.
Hands, eyes, sinew, feet, tongue—
all have done their part to get me this far thus far.
The Faradays and Einsteins
The Salks and Curies,
had pudding, no doubt, were one to have checked.
I can settle for powder—
The soft, slippery kind
Like the graphite one puts on a boy's wooden racing car's wheels.
What can intelligence do but nibble and nudge,
prod and poke?
Our feet continue their onward rhythmic course
in circles or in straight.
Our lips lisp their whispers to adorned ears
that wait with baited breath for nothings sweet and simple.
Our hands with fingers nimble tremble and grasp the tools
that tell us we are higher than the apes.
The thinking organ, with all its glorious histories,
slips its mysteries into tidy envelopes for filing.
For later, perhaps.
Our autopilot moves us through time and tellings
and rituals that operate themselves
with unseen cultural commandments and connections.
Our shamen
and our shame
drive our wagons over prairies
where sodden ruts of wheels
have already scarred the landscape's grasses.
Drive on, I grumble. Drive on.
Why not let the prairie sod suck my gaze to sagging—
for my eyes need not send their sight to match
the movement of the wheels at all.
I plod,
and in my plodding find that acid solace
that awaits those who obey the call.

Secrets surround us.
Arcane memories abide in all the crevices and nooks
that steal our passing glances,
and we may take our momentary glimpses.
But as this march of mine moves forward,
the only thing I dare not do
is grease the rusty hinge that hangs upon my heart.