BARED SKIN

Lying on the raft anchored out from the beach,

Which floats upon icy-cold summer Lake Superior

I would bake in the Upper-Peninsula Michigan weak summer sun

Until the surface of my skin felt hot

Plunging into icy Lake Superior

Feeling the bracing, cold water against my heated skin

The sensual feeling, my skin become my consciousness

My consciousness, my skin

In the deliciously chilling Lake Superior water

Dove under water over all my made frigid skin and face.

I climb back up onto the raft and bake off the chill

In the summer Upper-Peninsula Michigan sun

Repeating at my leisure through the passing week-end summer afternoon

 

We like bright summer sun’s heat on our skin,

Basking as bare as we can in its rays,

And the general warm summer air.

Summer cools into fall, fall freezes into winter.

Who enjoys winter’s brace upon our barely exposed skin?

And yet,

Extraordinary stimulation excites sense

Like chill Lake Superior water

Or heat of the sun on bared summer’s body

Or brisk, crisp air in winter’s bite on the barely exposed face

My sensuous face embraces icy air’s welcome winter brace

As much as sensual summer’s pleasant bake on my skin

And now, among fall’s gold and russet colors, I think of coming icy air again

 

QUESTIONS OF THE PITUITARY GLAND

What is appropriate in the young makes

What is not appropriate in later years appropriate for them

Ages of life pay their dues to time

Is it the body that counts age and appropriates ideals?

Makes youth intense and mellows age?

Questions of the pituitary gland

Maybe the body ticks time, but can it spawn behaviors?

Mentation, personality, development

Growth hormones dictate our humanity like the lives the three Moerae fated for all humans

Spinning the threads of who we will be

Tied up in bounds of determinism by the pituitary gland

 

Falstaff and Hal foreshadowing the youthful madcap role I played

In and out of the schoolbooks and classes, such a trope humanity scripted it in Elizabethan drama

Learning lessons of acquiescence in middle-age to gods that held my fate

Metamorphosis of the reading lists of my professors into bosses’ memos

Become pliant, compliant, indeed, obedient, to the machine I used to rage against

I wouldn’t say it was glandular as much as pecuniary forces

That forced me to slog through time in middling age

Chasing my dreams off the ambitious clock

Bouncing through relationships until one remains as if all along it was fate

 

And now, in arm-chair reflections of it all I ask questions of stories

The storied stages of humanity’s ageless morphology

The taxonomy of the human condition

Authored by us as one glimpse of the whole in the likes of Erikson, the psychologist—

Even the corpus of humanity’s iterations writ large upon our world literature

And I, a person, a representative man, following the trajectories as it seems to me are possible

Narrations of the human genome