who of me handed me memories 12/23/15

who of me handed me these memories

memories, faint and foreign that come out of nowhere

a flood, yet having a shoreline feel

workings, towards familiar bodies of liquid consciousness

coming onto an inward focus as pronouncing

on a thought screen blocking out the sun of ongoings

as if these memories were just now prominent

though unannointed and unsung

this is the way that time wanders in scribblings for me

now knee deep in a current, both inviting and captivated

by a depth perception potent but vague of descriptives

this is the method, the obtrusive conspiracy

that the feet of my mind deep down stumble upon

for finding things below the surface by contact yet foreign

to knowing memoires recalled and in hand

that would never emerge staggering and jagged this way

I look down from outside myself at the surface reflecting

stirring more than the compliments of comprehension

that the evidential-side could eventually muster

no story appears to settle with delivered results

carbon-dating in this life is an outcast proposition

irrationality is buoyant towards a truth telling mode

I have nothing to say, not even to myself about this

it is as if I had left some part of me distantly there

and it has returned without premise or details

faint but definite attachment comes with this discovery

are all of us suspect to this as confounding remembrance?

no one shares from the brink or the eyes of what this is

my best explanation is dispositional, cluttered and vexing

assuming there is reason or audience besides myself

this could be a mala of topic beads seemingly recited

maybe rudder-ship of a task over-bound in redundancy

this seems to have no moving parts outside headiness

then why the sip, the venture to taste, the need to conclude?

each day is filled with these flurries as soft residence frenzy

it’s like I am bringing the work of my mind, home

who of me handed me these memories

that I am obliged to pander, prod, poke

and then, ponder . . . ?