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magus 8807

August 8, 2007

I turn face up, the Magus.
Face lit up by tiny little bonfires resting gingerly on ropes that tie back my eyelids
And my eyes are peeled hard to the card
Looking deep in that little placard for meaning beyond meaning
Meaning beyond life
And I only see the swirl of colors, dimmed under candlelight.

What’s that in his hand, I ask myself
Self, I says, and I go about the other cards.

I gaze as hard at the sun sometimes.
I fight it with my brain behind thin veils of tinted plastic
They claim to be UVA and B compliant, but I am anything but.
I’ll battle that star until my last dying day, and it will not kill me.
Sure, its packed full of energy and all the good stuff momma warned me about,
but I’m anything but simply compliant.

Sun, I says,
You and me gonna go ‘round.
You are hot, and I’m burning already.
Why do you have to cook my poor sad skin even worse?

Sun, I says,
I liked you when I was younger, when you and the day were bright
and I took to liking how like the
long pulsar bulbs of all my classrooms you were,
but now you just another candle, melting me..

Sun, I says,
What happened to the moon? It’s been so many days since I’ve seen her.
I swear the sun is telling me secrets that the moon long hid from me,
but I’ll never tell.
Words slip down my face, collecting in my collar, where I wipe my hands.
I’ve got hands full of tiny sentiments, seeping in my flesh, and they don’t have
no where to go, but in
Words slide into my eyes, and pain is a new vision, slitting my sight
Words drip in my ears, where the wind sublimates them; silent August snow.
The moon never says anything this cold.

I wonder if, when I next I pull my deck out, if I’ll say the same things I’m saying now.
If all the wondering about, fighting the sun, dialing out the day,
will be anything more than an eager fight to say I had one.
Thin sheets of plastic, wrapped around my body, and all I have to show for it
are freckles buried under eye-bags and heavy brows,
‘cause its so hot.

Next time I flip that Magus, I’m gonna smile and not look too close,
‘Cause the Son of Man is a bright motherfucker,
And he’s got a handful of hurt waiting for me,
squinty-eyed and sweating.

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One comment

  1. I dig the coding. Is that a postmodern effect?



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