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Michael McGuire
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The Little Picture
From his eyes; the light that pities the Earth; enters a man's being,
All he knows is informed by this hallowed heat of Heaven,
His way untold; the burden of his concrete singularity; incommunicable,
Born of Adam's star; to walk the street of his days in songs of ecstasies and unsung agonies.
Becoming a reckoned wonder; abjuring the abstract resources of fate,
A man baths in his tenuous gathering of motions and musings,
In hopes to conduct the nexus of his flesh to his fantasy,
And in the wandering thereof he is every stranger's mirror and a fixture of god's focused hunger.
The emptied oceans of his love; testimony of his drained benevolence,
He builds upon stone; labors upon thought; in keeping with his will,
His works and aspirations nurse and bleed his exponential cravings,
The wending of routine avenues offers the dialectics of his own particular puzzle.
In the vast backyard compendium of his glorified vision; subsumed in simple sight,
He is the bones of the atlas; the tilt of the un-massed Earth,
All things that swim in the eye of his canvas and break from the song of his brush,
He is artist only; despot; god of all design by passional fiat.
Breathing antinomian; he contains the chaos and order of his own figured cosmos,
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With no reference to calculate the fragile frame of his soul,
In the daily gestation of his bread he construes no divinity in his own demise,
Put to the heat of suns he will burn in his instant; despite their eternity.
Written into the machine language of waiting; is the wholesale disconnect of days,
This is the dowry of his soft equilibrium; the figurative continuity,
Elemental mercy graces every constructive tendency of his motion,
One solar spasm in a star a million light years away and he would carry a different soul.
The euthanized eons of time's dreams suffer his brief waking,
The trifles of filling empty time and bills to pay; all he owes is what he is,
The sum of his wishes an investment on what he could be; but where there are bills there are bill collectors,
All he does will some day be dreams for the dust to dismantle and distribute back to the dreaming.
The history that is built in his day may not notice nor mark his little life,
All he knows and feels feeds the captured animal of his unknowable soul,
The intimate voice of the god of his consciousness; only he knows its music,
And the empire of his senses erupt and erode; moments to memories to decay then dust and nothingness eternal.
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