"body is where the knowledge comes from"

Of synesthesia as certain small
Mysteries continue
To animate the instant and you are

As much thrown
Into it as you can be
Said to own

Any contingency in its improbable
Production, this morning I dreamt I
Was looting the house

Of a former reality
Television runner-up only
To be squealed

On by the rich kids, my books
Are yawing atop
The green nightstand

The flow of thought does not
Follow a fallow
Plain, the plan of the day

Is to let desire more or less trump
The mere pleasures
Of fact as the squat woman

On the train garbles
Obscenities of gender and the car
Precipitously buoys as she

Makes to leave before
Abruptly returning through the pursed
Black lips of the door, yellow

Is calling out
To brown, warbling trapezoids
Stalk the stoop-ridden

Periphery for warmth, the stubble
Of winter razors
Foward and I feel more

Comfortable amongst the indefinite
Articles, I feel no
Relief in the parentheses

Dictated by men, when I was a child
I wrote body is where
The knowledge comes from and now it has come

Time for me to choose
A different body, one that intercorporeates
The world as one

Would hold the pattern
Of words unresolved, each a plane
Which normal consciousness

Does not reach, intervals
Where the absolutely new revives
Its excitation and yet I can’t

Get the image of the man on the bike
Smashing into the cab
Door I had just opened out

Of my mind, or is it my mind out
Of the image as the sun
Has left us in a prematurity

Of night