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Michael McGuire
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The Problem of Other Minds
I take you as the mode of your expression,
The way I take time as a venue of my being,
The way I write a song of these things,
And meaning is just the widow of a rhyme-scheme,
My thoughts they are gods yours seem like beekeepers,
Yet every time I speak it's a rhetorical suicide.
You are standing in my light and that is how I know,
That you are just the grave of a shadow,
The Earth is a factory of seed just watch the gods grow,
The atomic-spin of your entangled going will never let you go,
If I am a standard audience you are just a dumb-show,
How could the war of my higher self leave me this low.
I ponder and I wonder at the shape of your ghost,
Does time eat your meals the way it feeds my hungers,
All I know is I'm loaded with your covert longings,
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I am a self portrait worked by some abstract other,
Oh this is the system of me when the power grid groans,
I don't know how to say you; how to field the dogma of you.
I haul the burdens of the river-ready thru this revealed reality,
Thru every trick of timing; thru every triviality,
You are the face and figure of my relentless mortality,
The little god-stop of nature's vicious modality,
Great chunks of arctic-ice fall to this psychic-brutality,
I am the beast of you by the fault of commonality.
I can only talk to you (I don't know what to say to you)
I can not look at you (I can only see thru you)
I live on a lost world.
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