...Cerebro-Sonic...

He had gutted a 

small set of headphones

and replaced the internal cones

with miniature microphones

that could be fitted 

deep into the ear canal.

He had hoped to 

record and playback

the rushing of the blood

through adjacent arteries and veins;

to record the clamoring

of inner ear hammer and stirrup

and along with that the stressing of 

thousands of tiny hair follicles;

to transfer to magnetic media 

the multitude of voices which 

careened around his cranium

and were only heard momentarily

as they rushed past each ear hole

with the bizarrest of ill-synchronized 

   stereophonic effect.

A panoply of voices.

A chorus of spiraling monologues.

All of this, 

and yet nothing

(absolutely nothing)

makes it  to tape.

There within the 

multiple folds of gray matter,

lie arroyos of vacuum.

Utter     emptiness.

So many years later now,

and he finds moments 

when thoughts breach like whales

above thresholds of 

medication induced noise.

All the electronics are long gone now.

All but what 

they have left before him

on his drool covered tray.

It's a Fisher Price variation

of his glorious sound recorder,

ah, but he's not stupid.

He knows the difference.

All these years.

So many, many years.

So much could have been avoided.

He could have proved 

the voices were there.

All he needed was a little help.

Just like now

as he gazes down at the 

brightly colored amalgamation 

of plastic in his hands

and puzzles as to 

which of those myriad knobs

is the long sought for

"on" switch.

Ó2000 Jack David Hubbell