Mind is a monkey, the Hindus say—

neural fibers hung lobe to lobe

like rainforest vines swung from

by noisy little macaque-thoughts

in the canopy of gray matter,

branches descending into the

body’s trunk where finally,

beneath the ground, the root

disappears untouched by light.

You can hear them laughing,

just close your eyes, try

to sit still as the monsoon

of the body’s multiphonic

cacophony storms through

chasing even the jaguar

under cover. Only

the fungi of one’s darkest

prehuman sensibilities

can speak then, a language

even enlightenment can

barely hear. But then,

a real monkey knows

the obvious: noise

doesn’t hurt the forest,

nor clouds the sky.

∞

From the Fall 2014 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 31, No. 1)

© 2014 Dane Cervine