John-Ward Leighton

LEVELS

How do I feel?
What do I see?
What am I hearing?
How does my inside influence my words?

I feel fine, OK, so-so, awful sick,
pick one.
This book between my thumb and hand.
The TV blares on about art
Warhol, De Konig, Polluck,
Miles, Dizzy, Satchmo, Cohen.
How do I feel about that?
Who wants to know?

My life, this journey through time,
so many levels; seeing, hearing, farting.
I can smell my teeth, my armpits, my feet.
The disembodied voices harangue me from little
boxes and flickering screens.
What does it mean and how does it feel?
My crossed leg has gone to sleep
and a small burp escapes my lips.
How do I feel about that and why are there
always more questions than answers?
Hypnotic, in voices loud and misunderstood,
turning my mind loose on to this page.
What are these chicken scratches on the paper?
Now another question.
What side of the page?
Do I write on the front or the back?
Which is the front?
Which is the back?
How far is up?
Can up ever be down?
How far is down?
I grapple with infinity
can right ever be wrong?
Is it the singer
or is it the song?
The charging buffalo, large,
ignorant four legged steaks
galloping to be skinned for tepee walls.
What reality is there
three floors up from the street
lit by throw away lamps?
The sound pounds on my eardrums
and my face itches.
My toque warms my almost bald head and
I scratch my chin and the back of my head.
The sound of my TV quacks against my ears
and the adult warnings
mistakenly plays twice.
I pause now to round up
my head from where it has wandered.
The TV ads hammer at my intelligence
seeking to take me down to
dumb and dumber.
To resist is to
separate what you see
and hear
from what you feel.
Loud Bronx cheers
resound
as my fingers grope for
the mute button