Gas Bag Loci

Here we are,
gasbag loci.
Visions and wishes flow
through us.
Time terminates
at the point of our eyes.
We are
heavy with circuits,
gravitas like
digital machines.
We don't realize
how much we count.
We draw high prices.
Yet we
revolve around each other
as if we were stones.

While they danced, Frances was visualizing her high school days. She could hear the old 1950s music superimposed on the beats she was hearing with her ears. These days, a quick thought, they tell you where the rhythm is, you don't have to feel it. As they danced, bumping with the rhythm, not touching, exercising their own creative imaginations, the thought continued, everything is programmed these days, they tell you how to play and organize the moves, they tell you how to learn and what to learn and threaten you with poverty if you don't go by their directives.

While they danced time bunched up at the end point. The present moved much slower than the past streamed in. Her mind terminated the flow of the past and there was a blockage that filled the empty cells of memory. As she moved, gesticulating the dance, seemingly meaninglessly but not meaninglessly, she carried a wealth in the heaviness of her encased consciousness.