The skyscrapers of my consciousness rasp against one another
[an unplotted metropolis,
[an unruly expanse facing numerous byways]].
I express altogether too much serotonin.
I need to tamp it down,
or walk it off like one of the wretched meddlers
who loiter the quays at King tide.
As conspiratorial whispers profligate through secret synapses,
I’m unconvinced my crack-down on plasticity has resolved sufficiently
to hand down a decision.
Fasten your seat belts,
for we are beginning our final descent.
I have no use for concentration.
I can hand over my thalamus to
the beggars grasping for a second chance in the city market.
Maybe it’s time to hoist the anchor and raise the main.
All we know is that the most significant actions happen for no reason at all.
Andy Oram
February 4, 2025