The Book of Weston

Where is my brain? Not this grey

touchable mass reflecting light

and fingertips, byproducts

of the real brain somewhere out there

so they say. Brain made of brain.

Where is the fountainhead?

I float downstream.

All sensual evidence of self

swirl together in the same waters -

an opaque existence without windows,

a collection of matter so easily dissolved

by simple chemical, deep sleep.

The speaking self is not outside of this.

There is no seam through which to poke

my head out of this sensate bubble.

What would I find out there?

What shape could my real body be,

the source of this everflowing all?