Ice constricts the blood
vessels I’ve heard, slowing
down the flow and that
helps somehow, when 
my muscles are screaming 
for attention. My mental
muscles, my thoughts I
labor to broaden, 
widening the flow of input, 
opening them to full, letting
them finally spray and 
spurt, flooding me with the
grandest of mental vortices
from which I cannot escape
alone, but cry out as though
I’m drowning when all I’ve 
done is open the spigot. 
Perhaps what I need then
is ice, to pull the nozzle for
cold or buy a pack of 
gelatinous blue from the 
drugstore, and place it
against my forehead.