words

he moves with a purpose
that which has a craving,
a secondary agony.

catching the edges of curves
and gaining momentum
in grand sweeping arcs,
following a loop that originates
and terminates in a dopamine race
whose quiet little tracts
are alight with anticipation
and drowsy timeless hours.

he feels the bumps and breaks
in the sidewalk for a beat,
a bass line that itches
and the outer world exudes
an a cappella chorus,
surging and falling in again
by the heartbeat in a spoon,
the pulse of a flame,
the current from a needle.

the metronome slows,
the clicks stretch and fade
and in the rising intervals
receptors glow in neuroecstacy,
the streets swell with sound
and every one knows this genesis.

-S.C. Martinez