Memory of emotional reactions;
Perspective scribe and processor,
Analyst in the chair, with pen and paper,
Recording experience, recording life.
What moments have you carefully kept?
Of this time, of that face; with all its
Amazing expressiveness; those things at which
This outside perspective can only guess?
Sitting in the quiet evening, listening to
The ghosts of memory and watching the feed;
Your careful quill etching the story
Upon some untouched place in my mind;
The film, moving too quickly for editing;
No matter, I would not change a thing. Rather,
Highlight and underscore, emphasize and glaze
With preservative; protect with an everclear gloss.
He seems magical to me, like his photographs that,
Taken despite my blushes, render, in him, smiles.
A marvel, he finds in me things that I oft’
Wonder if truly present or only wistfully hoped.
It is too fresh for poetry, I discover;
I laugh for pecked lettering and science;
The fallback of surprised intellect before
The appearance of imponderable things.
For such things, intellect must only shrug;
Curls and cursives that pixels grudgingly convey;
A happy lack of corners that confuse linear process;
Emotion, an electro-magnetic pulse, disrupting logic.
Somewhere, in a deep, wrinkled cerebral corner,
A tiny spark flares; laser-pointed precision,
Writing new lines while I stumble over these;
Perhaps there, elegance I have not yet found.
Somewhere between surprise and scintillation,
Cradled between layers of history and hope,
The things that will soon be dreams are written or,
Perhaps more accurately, from which dreams may come.
La Brea, you betray me; a first, and an interesting thing.
To be expected, I suppose, when encountering the unknown;
Strange and beautiful mystery, like nothing ever seen,
I contemplate the experience and, at the thought, smile.