the view from

my mind is embodied, extended ever so far from
the center of me, long lines of kin-
aesthetic distance, the continuous reach of my consciousness
of self, the projection I make of my sensory surfaces, the inner
and outer, distance, which is the physical me
confronting this jagged angry weathering world.

from the center of me, the 'I' place that
point behind every pointing
back through which traveling leads nowhere but to itself no
distance later, and outside the infinitessimal self
there extends the space in which thoughts are exhibited
flickering and vivid brightly colored and rarely black and
chalky, where 1+1=2 stretches high as the jovian
atmosphere above, or the height of a space
elevator to an and, in which nothing feels like anything.

The sensory surfaces float outside this place my mind
black and back underneath everything where the watcher
watches and interprets the feelings out there at
the nose and muscles and in the tightening hurting
place just in front behind around inside but separate from
a fast-beating heartache. I feel the surface of my eyes.