Cracked My Skull

First:
cracked my skull.
Exposed the walnut
within. 

Next:
slipped on blood. Fell and 
watched the meat roll
out and under a stone.
Scrabbled over to retrieve it
and under there was
a world.

After that?
Learned the language of 
the world under stone.
Didn’t need my head for that.

All at once: 
bisected brain
lost its seam. Stopped asking
the questions I’d been taught
solved everything.

Then, this.
Absorption
then exposition of 
ghost tongue. This
translation, not perfect,
of what I’d heard:
that historic intellect
is a type of fog.
Talking in a circle,
moving away from 
all-potent straight line, 
surrendering
forced orientation of 
Point A to Point B.

Last: waiting
to hear back.

If understood, joy.
If not, patience.

Inside, bewilderment;
becoming wild, as in

loving trees more than
Aristotle. Waves
more than Plato.
Autumn scent
more than Descartes,

understanding that
there’s no word
in this tongue

for Jesus.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

2 responses to “Cracked My Skull

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