The Anatomy of Feeling
Sept 11 2009


The heart is a muscle
like any other.
Except for its built-in beat,
pounding out the pace
from the stern deck,
while the rest of us
dutifully leans into its oar.
And when aroused, worked-up
hammers-away like war-drums —
swelling-out our chest,
sending pulses of blood
flooding right through us.

While the brain has no sense
of rhythm,
firing-off
in all directions at once.
Even in sleep,
juicing our dreams
with random apparitions,
flashes of absurdity.

So I think erratically,
tend to feel with measured intensity;
the head and the heart
pulling in different directions.
And then, in the end
it’s the gut that decides,
that visceral feeling of right
and wrong,
instinct, and intuition.

When I feel my skin crawl
sphincters pinch,
fists clench
and the hair on my neck
bristle
with fear
and rapture.
When I am raw —
nerve-ends exposed,
jaw dropped,
eyes wide open.