One Schizophrenic Supersoul

One Schizophrenic Supersoul
© Surazeus
2018 03 26

I drink a carton of orange juice. The wind
that is not blowing hides from me in trees.
I walk around the university campus,
past veterans attending some event
dealing with the trauma of endless war,
and look for the open branch of my bank
because I need to cash a ten dollar check
so I can get back home. Sunlight on glass
knows the secret that no one can explain.
The young woman sitting at the round table
explains that I can sign the check to her,
and gives me the ten dollar bill that glows
fragile as the wings of the butterfly
resting on her eye, so I carve her name
on the silver sheriff badge she will wear,
Susan Rita Gonzalez, in the shape
of the silver pistol inside her heart.
She gives me the face I wear every day.

I open the door from my inner sanctum
and walk off the edge of the world. The mirror
she holds before the world reflects the face
I wear that everyone else sees but me,
so I smile for the phony author photo
expressing smug superiority of talent
on every copy of the book I wrote
in which I invent worlds for where I walk.
I am not the robot you think I am
but I trudge the same hallway for thirty years
to drone the same speech in class every day,
then put my face up on the shelf with books
I never read. I drink a glass of juice
squeezed from the fruit of the tree of the knowledge
of truth and illusion, so my eyes bleed
visions of people I have never seen
doing and saying things in flashing snippets
of dramatic action as if my brain
flips through channels of broadcast frequencies
beamed out by brains on the same channel vibe.

So I invent myself new alphabet
that helps me decode my meaningless dreams
where I am wandering lost in Somewhere City,
attempting to control the narrative
that I can organize random events
that occur around me on spinning sphere
which rolls like a bowling ball in the void
of my galactic brain. I am nobody.
Who are you? Are you nobody too?
I recite this very popular poem,
written by recluse Emily Dickinson,
while looking past my non-face in the mirror,
and laugh. I contain multitudes, I shout,
reciting transcendent song by Walt Whitman,
while running down the busy city street.
So I contradict myself because I
am everyone who lives on sprawling land,
combining all races and genders whole
into one schizophrenic Supersoul.

Thus I understand all opposing sides
and see every issue like shining diamond
with many aspects full of blinking eyes
who all together see whole three dimensions
that weave the universe from flashing atoms.
My radio brain receives flashing vibes
your brains transmit through social media posts,
so I see glimpses of dramatic action
in emotional visions while I float
half asleep right after I eat my lunch,
but they vanish. I cannot read your names
and I cannot hear what you want to say,
so when I put hearing aids in my ears
I hear the God who does not exist talk.

That is how I know they are all illusions,
those visions of strangers I see in dreams
all day while my brain analyzes facts
to conjure virtual world ontology
designed by my brain to endow my life
with historical importance. But I
sit alone in my room in some small town,
one brain in web of seven billion brains
dreaming illusions in harsh hungry life
on frail ball of dirt hurtling through the void.
So I drink a glass of orange juice and laugh.