I Am A Man Inside-Out
by Odin Roark

I am a man inside-out,
with imaginings verging on sane,
lighting up ideas in the dark,
churning the cauldron of angels,
lifting my mind and its doubts,
getting it to where it longs to be,
and maybe if I feel the tremor,
carry it back where feeling is warm again,
even as the heart races like a feather’s flutter in a hurricane.

I am a man inside-out,
vibrating with the collaborative,
as flood lights arc,
visceral memories resonate through my tissue,
recalling the tweak of cognitive spasms
clenching tight the pages of script
when first a voice utters the word
when first an image comes alive
pushing me into a theatre’s black tornado night.

I am a man inside-out,
knowable from afar
by the never-sleep-look of my eyes,
the Murine forever poised between my fingers,
calming the synaptic lightning
forever thundering across my lens.

I am a man inside-out,
re-born in the swirling thinkers weather,
the storm’s eye seeking calm,
clearing overhead clouds
where some thought my blasphemous ignoring of gods,
whose sacrosanct eggshells no one is to tread upon,
where suits now tremble at the laser of my eyes,
crossing me at their peril,
knowing I can swallow their light,
forever smothering the anger lashing them into their spin,
cocooning them by my own spin of another kind.

I am a man inside-out.
When Urania sets to flight my head,
I hurtle into the vacuous silence,
whiteness of black forever filling my palette with color
laced with the rapture of dissonance in my melodies.