Hypnosis

            By Gail
Mazur

            
               (posted Wednesday, Dec.
24)
            

            To hear the poet read
"Hypnosis," click .

            

               5 th floor ... 4 th ... 3 rd ... flickeringlit
numbers above an art deco doorin the brain's elevator, a polishedmarble cage
dropping you smoothlyto the luxurious lobby of SerenitasHotel--a '30s spa, a
hangoutgraced by Garbo and Groucho, grège carpet, gleaming door sliding
opentoward the cabañas , the stucco arches,a giant fig tree dappling the
ceramics,benevolent waiters posed artfullyby cool palmettos, invented only to
attend you. But you're not relaxing,not yet. Conflict. Distraction. Closeyour
eyes now, recline in your webbedreclining chair, try to imagineimagining a
magnetized barge floatingon the East River, attracting your terrorslike little
iron filings zippingheadlong through air to settle on its deck(But does a barge
have a deck? whereexactly do your troubles land?) Oh,you can let them go,
they're bits of metal dust flying elsewhere, until your eyelidsgrow heavy, your
chest is heavingin an optimistic imitation of deepbreathing. But your left
arm's cramping;a dire tautness above your right ear;your jaw's screwed tight as
a dill picklejar. You'd better abandon that unseaworthyscow, envision a
soothing warm lightfills your veins instead, floods your limbs,both your legs
unravel, your anklesangle helplessly toward heaven or hell,evil exits by the
ten toes, a drowsysomething as if something. ... Now a voicespells deliverance
from your half-headstabbed by familiars of pain, old noisemakersof the
embroidered white pillowcase,deliverance from Mass Avenue's repertorycompany of
sirens, racing racing racing,you can't silence the one who's clashing cymbals,
who's dropping syllables, who stokesthe day's rages, the one who always
co-signsyour black pages--or can you? What on earth could you be forgetting?
What's happeningto your mind's habits? What hope is there for transformation?
What vigil is thisselfish exercise interrupting? What fissure--what
fraying--loosens the fabric of fear, of perturbation? Where are you going?or
have you arrived? You know,this is no time for these questions,your lit feet
are fluttering,you're sinking, diving, plummeting--