Old Poem: Homunculus

There is a small homunculus
a man inside my brain
the membrane of a membrane of a microscopic cell.
He’s grown to know me rather well
though hardly do I well know him,
a modicum of mass and whim,
sealed inside a pocket space.
I cannot say I know his face
for indeed it’s something hard to see,
a microscopic head,
when in the universe without
we speak of macrocosms,
singing of the stellar maps
that stopper half of all the gaps
parsing Shakespeare and the seas
or splitting genes and Homilies,
in the faintest hope to bring
fibers to a common joint –
the sacredly anointed point:
a vertex of disharmony
is black and blessèd antimatter
but does it even barely matter?
for, oh, the man inside my brain
has strayed awry in circuitry
the sovereign head is entropy,
since physics governs still.
My logic paddles most abstract
my tongue is emptied of all tact
my theories flourish absent fact,
which precisely is in keeping
with the thought – my cells are leaping –
that Homunculus is sleeping
deep inside my moony brain.

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