Neurolinguistics

In memory of Stephen Phelps

Where shall I walk this morning to heal my soul?
Alleys are good because of the garbage and recycling cans,
but all of my organic matter is in my compost hole.

Where my spiritual matter resides is a whole
different question—I guess the pineal gland’s
right here to house my soul,

above my nose, I’m told.
I played rhythm guitar in a band
of chickens trooping to the compost hole—

the 7-Hertz signals knocked them cold,
brains spasmed, beaks choked with sand.
So, to heal my soul,

I’m taking alleys west to the old
Mississippi river—too much oozing mud
today to walk these trails and not be sucked down a ravine-hole,

just as the Book of Life foretold,
into the land
of the dead where souls
may crave the comfort of a wet, warm compost hole.