procedural notes

What was I just thinking about?
I was thinking, “Hmmmmm, I should go check

a thing. I forget
just what. And then,
as I was scrolling down the first place

I looked, scanning
to see if anything jumped
out at me like a picture of you
in the dictionary, to trigger "a-ha" or
"Eureka!" I thought again, “Hey.

Maybe

it isn't here, after all.

Maybe it's someplace else. But when
did I put it there? And what
could it have been? And where shall I check

next?"

Oh yes.

The human brain.
Of course!
This one.
Hi.

Just a mo ment

ok

we're in
These things

are so complex. You can not imagine

the subroutines. It's in here for sure.
Let's pick it clean. Or hell,

just file it away for now, and move on?

To the other thing, the I just now
can't quite recall. But it's on the tip!

of something's tongue, because before all of that,
I exactly know
what I tried to think. I was wracked
in the mind, in frustration raring
to go, tearing off and clawing abysses and brinks

in disgust (or what passes for contemplation, for me) and trying

to find where I left

the snippet of lyric that featured the phrase - Ah!

Yes! “cognitive dissonance”

- that I’d filed away to jot down, in a sec
which was only an hour or so ago
at best! And forgot

to do just that. Alas,
alack, alack alas, there
is nothing now left. And furthermore,

“Bummer.”

This place is a mess. These things always come to pass
away, leaving you none the wiser. It's just
they seem so locked-in and memorable when
you make that note to jot them down
next chance you get. Another shovelful

of bull shit, thrown in, you've plopped in clumps

where the roses don't grow, and wait for the points
of the thorns to grow in, like so many sharp

ideas you had. 'Til memory steals a loss

from win.

"I won’t be able to forget that," you know,
you're sure. It's just so
snick-click precision fit

inevitable. Oh, you wish!

We tend to forget: mental notes
aren’t worth the paper you plan to transfer them to
later. Mental notes are dish best served

to an elephant that never forgets, not
this God damn insincere alligator crying
over spilt whatever-it-was, whatever
-it-could-have-been, but never now. Mental notes

are good for being instantly lost upon filing away,
then turning up later
by weeks or months, unconnected to whatever
you’d meant to say. Without which

they make no sense! A dissonant chime,
missing its symphony by a mile - and worse,
you're never quite sure you've unearthed it
whole and complete, despite all
the deja vu that pours in

like eerie light, and you want to be sure,

except - why does it now suck!

Like an empty, amputated arm
still pinching itself

from the tourniquet

Is this what you get? To abuse your soul
in agonized taunt, by a trick of false memory

You curse yourself for not chasing it down
at the moment you'd noticed it first slipped the leash,
while the trail was hot! By leaps and jumps,

the lost could be found so easily, and lashed
and bound, and punished - by being

carved in stone. Imprisoned for good.

But it's no good now. You can dog that track,
but it's leading you on
to a trackless wood. You coulda, you shoulda

It never turns up, turns round

or comes back - even when

you can tell that you’re so damn close! You have
to give up.

Let it get good and lost! Then
finally, come snuffling back,
round your door, all wet
and draggled, having eaten its fill

of the wild,

to jump up and lap your nose. Sweet home! And, filled
up with triumph, like some dumb child
preparing to shout,

you shut your mouth. And swallow it down,

and swallow. Number one, at the moment,
you're all alone.
But supposing you weren't - there’s no way
to make this

a sensible boast, worth anyone's
while all that was going on - finally,

I
damned it all, and spat out some kind

of impromptu
quasi-poem. And I snatched
it up at once -
as a lesson, a warning,

an offering,

I carried it back
to my poetry blog, for a round of experimental
suffering - cruelly stretched out, mangled in
edited clumps, being painfully straightened, or

- contrariwise,

bent

to affected artistic effect, whatever
it doesn't want: intense,
intent, and ruthlessly purposeful:

to punish
itself

for not being what I lost, at all.

I'm sure that it's not. I checked.

I am now responsible, for whatever it was,

and wherever it went.