Waltz with high periphery beside no faded fantasy, as rain befalls no pretence on your lawn. And as you pass a blind man on the road speaking in tongues to no one, just don’t look and he won’t bother you. He is simply well involved in something else. And what? is not your problem. So, saunter through his aura and know well that he could be enlightened beyond your dreams. He could be a standard Buddha, waiting for someone to ask him anything about anything. He could be the way out of your pain and suffering. He could be a savior to your sleeping servitude– the thus-begotten haze upon your lips. He could be a sailor on the wind. He could know your future and your past. And he could very well be pleasant enough, though mysterious. He could be noble and grand. He could be the reincarnated spirit of a woman up your family tree. He could tell you secrets of yourself you never fathomed. And even in thinking all these things, you know you’ll never approach him. ‘Cause he could be strange. He could be dangerous. He could be so insane he’d stab you in the neck, and you’d be left alone on that deserted road, and you could bleed to death with no one holding your hand or telling you everything will be okay. You could die afraid, which is the worst thing. One must die happy. It’s better if you’re outside, and your soul can escape from your body and reach toward the heavens. It’s better of you’re at peace. There is no peace on the side of the road, bleeding to death from a stab wound performed by a doctor of deliverance. And all because you thought that maybe – just maybe – he was what you were waiting for. Maybe he was.
Monthly Archives: May 2019
North Facing
Distracting no difference to mean in the shade or deliver cold shadows through heavens abiding no distance from Babylon, tried and be true, like the canvas I notice is yellow and blue, and the worm in the soil can’t think thoughts I am sure, but you are no different and I’d tell you if you were, drawing your pictures aloud for a crowd and past my disturbance– I’m salient and proud, and like a pear tree to springtime, I’m blooming through sunshine and rain side by side like an old honest Abraham shifting no lies on a calendar open and scribbled upon– it is wrinkled and worn and I can’t look anymore at the days all crossed off and the days all forthcoming, my head is unstapled and my neck is alarmingly high as a hat tree that’s coats all hung down and reaching the floor like an old dressing gown caught by whittled maneuvers, asleep on the lawn, as you shiver me timbers and cackle and yawn while I’m telling you stories that you wanted to hear, but your ears aren’t open and the weeks turn to years as we sit ’round the fire and I spin every yarn that is tilted and teething, and fussing about like a foghorn to mist, I am yelling and shouting that you are an infant, and I am your son, and for awhile I was juggling, but now I’m all done with the writing from memory, my heart beats too fast, and my breathing is weak from inhaling burnt gasoline, from years I was driving an old rusted boat down a river I dug myself, and refused to call a moat because it separates nothing but the east and the west and I’d laugh if my castle’d build, ’cause I am at best a figure of speech or a candle wick burning– I am tough, I am dirty, but I am strong and not sorry for what I once did when I was less than a kid, I was a broken down heap of iron melting down then to a molten mess, shaping myself up again until morning delivered my east once again, across rivers, through mountains, and I stop writing and
Michael Timothy McGuire 