The Sensitive Machine by Shawn Misener

The body is a sensitive machine
susceptible to green neon muses
held together with holy glue
with the threshold of words
and images
and memories tossed backwards
like sopping wet notebooks

ghosts of giraffes inhabit my dreams
and I see them through the rear view
in my 1998 Ford Taurus

Driving over clay vases
inside of the cappuccino cafe:
I'm amazed there is room to drive


This is what happens
when you wake up at night

Your dreams have washed over
and off of your sensitive machine

That's why you shake your head,
sitting up at the end of the wet mattress


is a good, good thing

Though apparently
too much of it means you're depressed
and too little of it
means you're overstressed


My car has vanished
but I'm ordering a latte from a barista-
she doesn't know how to make one
so I jump the counter
and make it myself


the night through the window
the crackling of metallic mosquitoes

the slow wind and the distant highway

1 comment:

Old 333 said...

And zap go the mosquito(e)s. Cool poem. Thanks for it.


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