The Real Selfman

¶ You consider what the eyemen are telling you. They describe the clouds, and you think that they are swirling like foamy waves on an inverted sea. The earmen tell you about the sound of the cars going by, and you think they add to the effect, sounding a little like waves.
¶ You ask Super Ego about it, but he just tells you to get your mind out of the clouds.
¶ You ask Id, and he laughs at the thought.
¶ You tell the legmen to walk across the street. You watch the eyemen's message absentmindedly while the legmen and other crew members take you across the road. The sidewalk is painted with yellow rectangles. The walk signal is blinking red, and, as the earman informs you, it's chirping.
¶ The eyemen are just reporting to you your distance from the curb when the idea man asks you, "Who are you?"
¶ You laugh. "I'm selfman. Are you still trying to comprehend..."
¶ "I don't think you are," interrupts idea man.
¶ You are taken aback. You ask, if you aren't yourself, then who are you?
¶ "You aren't selfman. You are memory man."
¶ You ask idea man what he means by this.
¶ "You are memory man, and you have the memories of selfman. You remember selfman. You are the memory of selfman, but you aren't selfman himself."
¶ You wonder where selfman would be if your not him. You hadn't seen any other selfmen around the brain. "If I'm memory man, then why don't I remember who selfman really is?"
¶ "You do, but you don't"
¶ "I'm selfman."
¶ "No. You're memory man."
¶ "Then where's selfman?"
¶ "Nowhere."
¶ You have crossed the street now, and legman asks if you'd like to continue down the sidewalk as usual, but you hardly notice.
¶ Ideaman goes on, "Selfman left. He left a long, long time ago. We're all just here in his brain, doing what he told us to do, what you remember he wanted us to do, but he's not here anymore."
¶ You hardly notice yourself asking the headman and eyemen to look down at your hands, but you find that your receiving reports about the apperence of your own hands, and they seem strange to you. One of the handmen rotates the hand for you, and you see what an alien friend it is. Is it yours? Is any of this really you?
¶ The legmen ask you again if you'd like to continue down the sidewalk, and you're pulled from your thoughts just enough to mutter an affirmative response.
¶ The idea man’s words feel almost as if they could be true. You're uneasy. "Am I Selfman?"
¶ One of the handmen overhears you, "Aren't you?"
¶ "I don't know."
¶ The handmen converse with each other, "He might not be the real selfman."
¶ Soon the rumour spreads throughout your whole brain, that is, if it is your brain. They all speak in hushed voices.
¶ "Where is the selfman?"
¶ "Who is the real selfman?"
¶ "Is he gone?"
¶ "He is, isn't he?"
¶ "Will he ever come back?"
¶ "I want him back."
¶ "I'm lonely."
¶ "Wait!" you cry, wanting to get a hold of the situation. "I am selfman... I am... I am..."
¶ "Are you?"
¶ "Are you really selfman?"
¶ "You're just a memory."
¶ "Are you the real selfman?"
¶ "Selfman left us."
¶ You look around the brain. "Maybe... maybe I am selfman... and maybe I'm not... but if I'm not then what I am is a representative of him. Wherever he is, I remember his wishes. That's what matters. Listen to me, and I'll tell you what he wanted. Maybe he'll come back one day. Maybe I am him. Either way, nothing's changed. Keep listening to me, and selfman, whomever he is, wherever he be, will be satisfied."
¶ Ideaman begins applauding, and everyone else shuffles quietly back to work, satisfied by your speech. You remain there, feeling small and awkward, wishing you could think of a speech that's just a little more satisfying.
¶ Ideaman smiles and leaves you to yourself.

Experemental Mode of Writing

A man on the edge of the ocean waits to tell his mother goodbye, but an old friend...
Slippery was the white which whashed upon the grains
like salt too heavy to dissolve.
It reminded him of a gritty sort of soup,
or a sugarjar in the m i l k.
Drifting on a child's sail, he lost his footing.
No more was the wooden green floating
nor the heavy salt slurping,
for now the children where laughing,
like roadways of dying.
Trees drinking applejuice, with
icecubes
or cherries that can't see.
So our eyes lie on the sidewalk, while our feet dangle
in
    the
            sky was partly cloudy with no chance or rain,
only the occasional mist in droplet form,
taken twice a day and once before evenings
wherein the lady rocked on a needle chair
sipping her tea from accross the bay
where all the mothers ask their children
"What will you say today?"
and all the children answer
once in a while
when the sky is a little less wet
-ed by the tears of the girl who wasn't asked
until the lady in the needle chair
finished her tea
and asked me
"What will you say today?"
The man was shaken from his thoughts by a cold
touch
of wind upon his skin. Paper fluttered.
Longer legs than a treetrunk slipped like a
tiger
,a madman on his day off,
coming through the brush with - an - U m b r e l l a
in - his - hand.
"How's the reflection shifting today old chap?"
Murrmer murm, murmer mermur murmer Mermering
mermer muremir mermir mirmure mirmur merm,
murmur thus "Said the waiting man."
"Is That So!?" Cackled the floor planks,
"Well I think it's fine for a drownin'!"
He smiled warmly as he might,
"Th'flection's shimmered by a cold wind.
I sha'n't stay under so long's to see."
The treetrunk of a tiger dropped his paw
colder still
on the back of his neck.
"December is coming, count with me."
Ten they said together.
Thus several seconds passed away
while a whispering blade of grass learned to play flute.
"Did you see the ircksome lad?"
"Nay, buta fine'n on t'porch.
Delivered me mail twice a days-back."
A moments hesitation
putting on face,
"Well that's grand! Whatcha get fur jingles?"
"Two pence anna 'alf."
"Ah! Now I gotta one fur twenty!
Mind yur blather's twice tha' in a forenights kelp."
He lowered his eyes.
"Whatta de-matter?"
"M-m-m."
"Spit yer neh-ah-uhhh..."
"My own matters."
He stood a little resolved and half dizzied as the grass
finally learned D minor.
The water lapped upon green wood
and spires of splinters spat salty spittle
uppon grey trousers.
"So be it."
They stood in silence.
The sun argued with the moon as to weather,
and whether the stars could stay.
The shore insisted that they must go home,
for they where turning purple it supper's air.
"She was on the line." Spoke he finally.
"Yeah, and we all wher-
"NO... my line."
'''
"Ah. Go on mah friend. Go on."
"There was the we, standin'
and she said to me,
'What will you say today?'
and so it was..."
and so it was
he lost his footonthe cloud again,
that all I finally knew
all the others accross the bay had no socks
save for the red pear in the heavens,
'tween the East and South mountains
where it rose e'vry Saturday morning from the East
and settled down for a nap every night in the West
so that we could sleep despite its spiteless radiance...
"What's the point! Ah was there."
,,¡ʇɐds spǝǝs ǝɥʇ puıɯ,,
The crooked cane quivered.
Tiger trunks eyelids like a tongue barely pushed
or a nostril breathed through
or a pin in, but not through, the evening news
showed us that this was not the man's usual.
(Indeed, he preferred jam over jelly.)
His eyes
            turned
                down
cast    to    the    ground.
                                                "Sorry"
"Don't ye ' me ya! Take a trike fer breakin'!"
Gazing like an english muffin,
a seagull in the rain,
he was an unshaking figure silhouetted against
purple sea.
"I  await  her."
The cruel one grinned.
"Come now, you wait in vein on'sploaded veins!"
    Veins (indeed).
"Do ya really think there's any time to be gained
on a salted plane
in the middle of a winter's hour?"
Slippery was the white which washed upon the grains
like salt to heavy to dissolve.
He lifted his eyes,
"Yes."

Passing 'neath a maple tree

I meant to post something like this a while ago, but never came up with anything beautiful enough. Still haven't. Oh well, maybe it will sound better on your end.

Passing 'neath a maple tree, it's leaves golden and oránge,
a collection of men, three, had some words to exchange.
A leaf, a discarded sheet of foliage, fell to the cobble path.
one of the three, a sage, cried out "A sign at last!
As this leaf before me is graced with veins of red,
so is my heart that pleas to let my friends be fed.
Now I know that the thing I need to understand
is: this hand's for giving!" Anew he saw his hand.
The second man there growled "Nonsense! Deciduous
is all it is!" He howled "A sign? Preposterous!"
Then the last of the three asked if it were a sin
to learn from things that be, but speak only within.
"For despite the language that this sanguine leaf speaks
in his ear the foliage gave the lesson he seeks."
All these things did transpire beneath a maple tree
in which a smile slyer than suspected by th'three
sat watching, and speaking as it dropped one more leaf,
"They got not my meaning, but clarity's not chief.
What they understood I hadn't in my mind,
but still it was good, though my thoughts they don't find."