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Here comes the right brain,
appearing on paper through the agency
of my left hand.
Always a surprise, it is,
to read what flows (or dribbles)
down that under-used limb, the left arm.
Here it is, chosen once more to perform
its weekly task of allowing the poor right brain
to speak.
Sound off, right brain!
Here's your photo op,
your fifteen minutes of fame:
the right brain on parade!
(1-2-3-4 sound off. Sound-Off!)
I am amazed to see how these lines string out,
how these words go nowhere
while still making a pretense of writing.
Could I get more self-conscious than this?
More tied up in Gordian knots of self-awareness?
Whose sword was it that cut through
the Gordian knot?
Surely Hercules.
Come on down, Herc!
I need you.
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