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Michael McGuire
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Staring at a Painting
Round-blue-ball swimming in blackness,
A seeming swarm of creatures littering the landscape,
I study deep; render my soul to the gathering,
Put myself to the making of; and still no light culled, Maybe a reflection of a mirror; self fulfilling dreamer,
Just me; I am losting; train of thought shuffling.
Resume focus; settling to my unmade emptiness,
The math of my exponential loneliness defies calculation, And so I can put no standard to the issue,
Meaning more imposition than imperative,
The way breathing is just fragile increments away from choking,
It all seems as unknowable as my own knowings.
But I am captive; oh mighty muse,
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Like a man of faith yet I call no god to bear,
Who could put the worth of a woman's moon to equation,
She like this before me; a total being apart,
A mystic somethingness that creates its own reading,
I know it moves the money of my soul.
Outside the soul-pending-trance of this singularity,
The world passes; negates with indifferent eyes,
And I am ended at the origin; a vacuum of information, Seems there is no tellings from your own workings,
But the hot-wired Heaven is the ground wire of the soul, So I turn claiming no eternal truths just the deep breath of a moment's respite.
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