Fully Loaded

I wonder if there is in each of us the neurological
equivalent of mille feuille-layered photographic film –
micron-thin – pervasive with the shades of every

human face we’ve peered at in the day and dream of
in the night, or in late autumn afternoon, when light
begins to do its tricks and fix us with afflictions:

addict us to new simulacra of the soul. I wonder
if the brain hides whole the mass of implications
in the vast arrays, soft panoplies of patient gazes,

angry brows, erotic mouths, and other facial aspects
and distractions we amass through looking – all
unclassified and cooking in our humid psychic heat:

spilling sweet into the deltas of our consciousness
like dancing sea grass, waving in our optic estuaries:
unconsidered beckonings of babies, dentists, prostitutes,

professors, wrestlers, aunts. Today two golden
fellows billowed up and caught me in their glance –
fully loaded with surmise, troubled hunger in their eyes.





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