Satellite Convulsions

　　by Ben Doyle

　　 When I bend back to gaze at the satellite convulsions， I

　　 am an aqueduct for twilit rain. Quite literally I stand

　　 in the littoral zone： a lens--no an aqueous humor， my

　　 feet on the land below the high-water mark， my hand

　　 a glazed waver： hello light-purple lights， hello red spots，

　　 you've beaten the stars out tonight but you're struggling with the

　　 atmosphere， ain't ye？ Over centuries the river became not

　　 a river： Lethe's end crept together--self-scavenging sea

　　 snake--& the middle filled with water--morphology dubbed it

　　 a lake & now the moon swims in it & the moon orbits it &

　　 the moon tidally tugs on it. The moon is a satellite in a fit

　　 of paroxysm. One minute past， I emptied an aluminum can

　　 of dull opiate to the drains to wash down my antipsychotics

　　 then Lethe-wards slunk I. There must be this wire shaking

　　 loose in my mind， an unattended firehouse， a spasmodic

　　 filament attempting to cool the baby planet but lacerating

　　 precious gray matter. Thought leaves no vacancy for memory--

　　 I forget & forget the rules， the thirst an auger， rain only whetting

　　 it， I bend & lap some lake up， tongue it， suck the silty mammary

　　 right where a light from the firmament meets it. I keep forgetting

　　 the rules， a Ptolemaniac with stars & suns circling me； I keep

　　 missing my cues， can't arrange the particles moments are made of--

　　 and it's all good！--because when I bend seriously back & peep

　　 at the satellite convulsions I am a sluiceway for night rain. If I love

　　 at least I love aptly， terminally， like a man who loves his dinner until

　　 he's done with it， then settles to the couch to easy pixilated dreams

　　 （bounced off， yes， satellites， & beamed into a pale dish）。 And still，

　　 even unfettered by history or hope， the world does not seem

　　 shocking--simply something to fly a canvas balloon around， to

　　 dig a hole in. To climb into. To allow to fill with water， perhaps

　　 it is raining， perhaps you dig below the watertable； it gushes through

　　 the dirt； your bath is drawn & in it are drawn （sputniks & stars） maps

　　 charts with which to constellate your body. Connect the dots.

　　 A little ladle with four handles--a tiny light strobes in the cup， in hot

　　 convulsions of distance， bleats of temporal ignorance， synapse of morse

　　 but no code， blood but no pulse， the stream but no mouth or source.

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