I Am

I am a man inside-out.

My imaginings light up ideas in the dark,
churn the cauldron of angels,
lift you and your doubts,
give you to where you long to be,
and maybe,
if I feel the tremor,
carry you back,
where feeling warm again is challenged,
heart racing like a feather's flutter in a hurricane,
turning your hour glass once again.

I am a man inside-out,
vibrating with the collaborative,
my inner-floodlights arc,
visceral memories resonate through my tissue
recalling the tweak of mind spasms
clenching tight the pages of script,
when first a voice utters the word,
when first an image comes alive,
seducing 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 swirling mind's weather,
the storm's eye seeking calm,
clearing overhead clouds
where some know 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 their palm trees by my own spin of another kind.

I am a man inside-out
when Urania sets flight to my head
hurtling me into the vacuous silence,
whiteness of black forever filling my palette with color,
laced with the dissonance of my existence.

I am