Prose Poem From Recent Festival

The Editors,
Times Staff

Editor: A prose poet by the name of Pablo Little has been making some waves lately. Pardoning the pun, this latest work is rather cerebral. A staff member recorded the poem at a recent beat festival. The piece is entitled “Between The Hemispheres.” Mr. Little was kind enough to allow us to reprint it wholly here.

Text of poem by Pablo Little:

"I went walking through the two hemispheres, looking for you. I passed through the cerebellum, but you weren’t there. I moseyed through the occipital lobe, and I trotted through the substantia nigra, but I could not find a trace of you. Resolved, I balanced my way through the corpus callosum. I would have thought of that space, that void between the hemispheres, as your home. But there was no home for you there, only pink and gray. I retraced my steps, but I could not find you. Has logic hounded you out? Has rationality expelled you? I heard that a medieval theorist once weighed a body before and after its death in order to measure you. He was disappointed. Perhaps I shall walk through the heart instead."

Editor: Mr. Little, one might guess, is schooled in Neuroanatomy or some adjacent field. From his words, his age (52), and his setting, I imagine him as a smart man wielding what he remembers from college to woo women or men who itch for nothing more than to be wooed. I will give him something. He is clever by seducing his subjects with sophisticated jargon like "cerebellum", "substantia nigra", and "corpus callosum" -- and in the meanwhile, making them starry-eyed with a romantic narrative over a journey through the mind. And he is more clever to cite ancient (read: sexy/mystical) science, and to conclude with a climactic hook, "Perhaps I should walk through the heart instead," referring to the at this point completely enticed listener's heart. He is clever to bash rationality and any inhibitions that the listener might have, encouraging her or him to let loose and embrace hedonism in this moment. But Pablo remains a crackpot in my mind. This poem has "little" literary worth. Pun intended.

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