My brain is like a Victorian attic – cluttered, too busy, 

            crisscrossed with cobwebs 

and full of musty old books with colorful illustraytions.

(sic)

            Let’s crank up the old Victrola.

            “I Dream of Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair”

            Floating like a vapor . . . 

Consciousness, 

burning,

burning like, like, a dying star,

blazing a circle seen

in this very room where 

I remember that other darkened room,

my grandmother, Saisy Blanton,

her hair unbunned, grey as slate, 

hanging past her waist,

 a big woman squatting 

over the bedpan like, like a human tent,

the metallic stream’s sizzle abating 

            tinkle, tinkle. Little

Boy Blue come . . .  Lasssssssss-seeeeeeee!

Words accumulating like marbles in a bowl.  

That tiny explosion when the TV’s clicked on.  

A horizonal line on a black screen.

Crackle, 

            then Rin Tin Tin running.  

The real dog Ace, a Doberman, outside 

            chained to a post.

            lying in the stripe of a shadow

            in the dirt under the eave 

of the house that also serves as a service station.