Dreaming of the never mind
--the burden of proof my thoughts struggle
over if it was even such a thought.
It's in my nature
--the uncertainty
--the clutter of an empty space begging
for stronger remembrance:
like signal to noise.
Even in the harsh light
it casts unknown shadows
causing me to turn to something more tangible
--people, places, and things:
the ones I can criticize
or stylize, hold in my hand,
crush with my fist, kiss with my lips
--honing it down until a kernel
of something remotely mine.
Then I smile
at being a tourist in my own mind:
Paris syndrome: litmus test:
that disconnect between fantasy and reality,
fragment and rumination
--It's right there now
on the tip of my tongue.
