From the Heart

No czar could claim a more absolute grip:
death is mine, and life;
but I am no mindful leader,
more an irascible slave to my own muscle.
I vacillate monotonously
between diastolic apathy
and systolic rage,
until the glorious day a mid-sentence stutter
brings a moment's respite. I shudder to a halt:
peaceful here in the sudden stillness,
though my neighbor's gasps
could well be tempered. Dreamless, I sleep:
a brutal kick shocks me into line again
to stumble onward, atria arms and ventricle feet
raised high in martial cadence. Resigned, I explore:
my long tentacles stretch luxuriously, testing
the confines of my motile host,
furtively seeking avenues of escape.
I erupt frenzied at its nicked hint,
and tremble in a rapid, tortured, wringing throb,
only to be capped into submission,
fluttering hard. Beaten, I speed and slow,
blind in my cage,
as unknown events of uncertain import,
distant signals faintly telegraphed,
regulate my flow. Humbly, I bow:
your servant, your master,
unquestioning machine.

Oct. '99

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