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Poem 1: A Beginning

I sat and I wondered, to myself in my head, what shall I do before going to bed? "There's not much day left; there's no time ...

Monday, January 17, 2011

Poem 95: The Head Unifer

You, corpus callosum, function
eternally creating dreams of broken reality
where time draws lines on faces
until the left and right become strangers
parted in direction of thinking 
and then eventually being.

Where can I let art meet science
or math meet language
or soccer embrace history?
When are knowledge and movement and emotion
allowed to interchange their parts for variation of existence?

Perhaps the right and left are not strangers
but simply estranged
through training of nature
and indoctrination of mind?

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