A complaint

I think my head is a zeppelin
that will fly far away, dragging
my body with it, feet dangling in the cool
blue water of the river.

I think my brain is overheating as
electrical impulses meet the resistance of
gray matter turned to gelatin, as my computer
overheats because its battery
is defective.

I think my muscles are pasta
strands of spaghetti, vermicelli, angel hair, fresh
and tied in knots, dried that way by pasta makers:
Delicious, but brittle.

I think my nerves are misfiring, confused
by an overload of conflicting information, impulses
coursing down paths that are unsuitable:
Contracts in the stomach, Property in
the legs, Corporations in the shoulders.

I think, I think, I think if I think more I will disintegrate.