What to do when the skin pickles
and the mind dries splintered?
What to do when eyeballs glitch
shudder open-shut, right to left?
Where to go when cars slam openings
cabin space so tight it pierces skin?
How to survive the sandwiched time
of somatic stares and twitching sleep
unparalleled movement unceasingly on?
Why do we contrive without power
un-surrender ourselves to perpetuation?
Which is in?
When will the uncleaved door bend
ope-crack and whistle in the
sizzling windy train of space,
belly breathe hoary air eons long
trellised and clinging to cilial body,
shivering sensoranticipatorily?
When stillness is–
"My mistress' eyes are nothing…"
In the gaze of the other 
I fear Stillness. Stillness is a domain of ominous portent. Within that moment the potential for plummeting from the precipice of balance brings the body to a taut rigidity, paralyzed. I ask myself, Will I fall upon soft air to soar free, vibrant and alive? Or will I sink into an abyss of darkness so black I cannot see my own death coming? I have been to both.
Stillness is also in the eye of the storm, in chaos, silence.