Tuesday, October 04, 2005

“The Day No Days Fit,” By Robert Maguire

The incredible Hyde
In a red light District
Somewhere in Neverland

Bought two pairs of Sex
with a pogo stick

Met an angel
Who had bad reception
Just south
A faulty halo,
I believe,
Prayed for a new Messenger,
With a new message

White knuckled Reluctantly fell
Briefly Dreamt about precision
Was forced
To run naked
In the street that morning
Tintin Smelt a rat
Slid on ice
In a snow storm
In January
Being lost somewhere Near November IV
And saw D.E.A.T.H.
In the post office
Of a boot
Looked around
Regarded La dolce vita
Over a cup
Of espresso

Learned how to Speak
With my hands
Became quite evident
That words most order often
Not do be to need
To be understood
Unless you’re
Wearing a blindfold

Language is much more
A movement
Than a sound

Saw nothing but darkness
Under the City of Lights
And no one seemed to care

Discovered The satisfaction
In disproving
A stereotype
Laid down in the park
and watched them explode
like fireworks
making luminous willow tree branches
the light reflecting from eyes
of those who were,
until recently,
completely unknown to me
Woke up inside
a thirty year old morning
that had yellowed
like a dusty photograph
from a newspaper clipping
found in a box in the attic
that’s new
to whoever discovers it

stopped time
on the edge of the earth
looking back at the shadows
of the midnattssol
feeling the chill
of a Scandinavian summer

it all comes at once,
from sliding on marble streets
in the stalking rain
to the reign of self

to an Alchemist
coaxing with jazz
and vodka
the unsuspecting youth
and leaving them
to a trumpeter in the square
like the one near the ghost
at another time
and another place
balancing over the pavement
consumed by restful people in speeding cars

the fatigue
the hunger
for everything at once
the creation
the destruction
the inexpressible,
all-consuming passion
that curls ones toes in his shoes
that sends shivers
that are almost painful
the wanting to burst
into pieces
for want of showing some immense appreciation
some absurd self-sacrifice
for that one moment
the one where we sat
and felt truly comfortable

Nothing changes
Saint Mark
Still Keeps watch over

The pigeons
Who rob The jesters
The speed remains

the tracks still echo
with the thunder
of the profound weight and purpose
that he had when standing
above the ocean
with no one else for miles
he screamed
with all he had
“I am!
I am!
Let me show you!”
Only because he thought
There must be a reason
That today is the day no days would fit.


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