Is there a localized brain function for bad poetry?

Why is it
that sometimes
a Salvador Dali painting
seems more real
than my own life?
Exaggerations
stitched together
into a
Frankenstein
of memory
and imagination.
I look at photographs
from my past
and they look different to me.
I don’t remember
as much as the camera does.
Or is it that the camera
doesn’t have the memories I do.
Look around and
Rarely see the present,
much more often
see the past layered on the now.
And the future?
The world opens up and the future awaits
just one step from right now.
But is it always there?
Does the mind know what is to come?
Does my mind already know you?
Even though we’ve never met.
A close-up of the brain
An electric forest
Pulsing with every motion
Movement
Do the same possibilities exist inside
as those that surround us?
Are there quantum realities
Inside this addled dome?
When I am quiet
Very quiet
It seems as if I have other lives
Continuing around me.
Two roads diverged…
I took them both
Reality separated from reality
by opaque cellophane.
But if the quantum is inside
Then 151,600 universes die every day
And  360,000 new ones are birthed.
The idea that infinity
is both very small
and very large
was a big step in understanding
the world in which I live.
Times when my soul,
my insides,
my guts,
know that there’s something going on
behind the curtain.
Sometimes it is crushing
Immobilizing
Crippling
Sometimes exhilarating
Elevating
Ecstasy.
Always, though
Inexplicable.
These are the humors that plagued
Everyman.
They plague him still.
When looking at a painting
Stand beside it
Shoulder to the wall
And look across
The peaks and valleys
Of a world filled with passion.
Looking at a painting from the side
Brings me close to the painter
Elated
Despondent
Angry
Carnal
Each one raising
A unique mountain range.
Behold the artist.
Pen digging into paper
Might speak the same language
But no one gives handwritten books
Because writers have horrible
Handwriting.
But seeing a writers hand
Is a window to their soul
Like a painters strokes
Shaping the curvature of the earth.
How will the world end?
Some say global warming.
I say facebook.
Sea squirts
Travel the sea,
Adventuring.
Until they grow up.
Settle down.
Find a place to live.
For the rest of their life.
And devour their brain.
And spine.
But they are not dead
They do not die
They just do not move.
Available for status updates
And invitations
To events they will not attend.
There was this woman
Who was in an accident
And lost her ability to
Know where she was.
She knew she was somewhere
But she just couldn’t place it.
This proved to be awkward on more than one occasion.
What those around her discovered
Was that the person shapes the space,
But the space didn’t shape her person.
Hers was a world of
No landcapes
No context
No place
That seems familiar
Except
In the arms
Of her lover.
When she was there
It did not matter
Where she was.
Idea for projection:
Stars spinning until a few stand still
Until it becomes impossible to tell
Which way you are spinning.
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