Bruce Bond The Ghost in the Shape of an Unnamed Flower

When Eduard Hitzig wired a living brain

and found a shock here raised an arm, there


a finger, he made a map and planted the flags

of native German into the strange new world.


If you are wondering what place does what,

come. Sit. The region that raises your hand


is the chair where the scientist is busy

shocking your brain. And his brain is shocked


in turn by the guy in the chair in his head,

the seeker you cannot see. No one does.


If you are like me, you are always in

the way. The old gods of the wind have little


on those of the blind heart beating in panic.

The anthropologist living with the natives


can empathize. He knows what it is like

to study the behavior of a tribe with some


anthropologist in it. What is a point

of view, asks the cortex. Where does it start.


And why does a shock in the pre-frontal

portion do nothing. Or nothing we observe.


Only a flash on a scan that could be someone

stranded in the dark. It could be Eduard,


now that we know him a little better,

and he knows us. It could be his research


agenda among the nocturnal flowers

where he snaps off his flashlight and lies down


weary with the scent. And though he cannot

see them, they see him, and like the grave


he crawled from, he opens his mouth a bit

wider the deeper he breathes. And breathe he must


as the red leaves breathe. And then sleep.

And the flames in thousands come tumbling in.



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