SIGNATURE
I close my eyes
and my brain tells my brain
to release the chemicals.
Electrical impulses careen down axons and are thrown into synaptic endings.
Neurotransmitters jettison across the synaptic space and are gobbled up by membrane receptors.
Ahh. Here’s an early one. Downtown Boston.
I’m playing in my father’s shop on Chauncy Street.
I lose myself within a maze of boxes, towering skyscrapers,
and make bubbles in the water cooler.
When I was young, I remember…
I remember growing up…
One time, when I was young…
What is in these stories that we tell?
And what of all the thoughts that ever are?
Memories. Thoughts. Thoughts about memories. Memories about thoughts about memories.
Things to be proud of. Things to be ashamed of.
Acetylcholine, glutamate, and lightning bolts, scrambled
through the universe. This is who we are. Echoes
of electric memory, chemical signatures
exploding into unknown hands.
A version of this poem first appeared in Café Eighties Magazine, 1997.
I close my eyes
and my brain tells my brain
to release the chemicals.
Electrical impulses careen down axons and are thrown into synaptic endings.
Neurotransmitters jettison across the synaptic space and are gobbled up by membrane receptors.
Ahh. Here’s an early one. Downtown Boston.
I’m playing in my father’s shop on Chauncy Street.
I lose myself within a maze of boxes, towering skyscrapers,
and make bubbles in the water cooler.
When I was young, I remember…
I remember growing up…
One time, when I was young…
What is in these stories that we tell?
And what of all the thoughts that ever are?
Memories. Thoughts. Thoughts about memories. Memories about thoughts about memories.
Things to be proud of. Things to be ashamed of.
Acetylcholine, glutamate, and lightning bolts, scrambled
through the universe. This is who we are. Echoes
of electric memory, chemical signatures
exploding into unknown hands.
A version of this poem first appeared in Café Eighties Magazine, 1997.