Of Raw Quality

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I am an onion beneath the surface
a bulb petrified by the flash
I think myself into face
into attention
into mass reflection
into oblivious inward direction
and pin each person into place

Aware of the tandem of dark and light
dismayed by a contentious yet conscientious insight
I draw pictures of what could be ordinary reality

If I could be more than a sign on the cross
i would be more aware of myself
as a face worth resurrection
and with a place in the crowd

but all the phantoms who stole my raging tantrums
led people around me into country music anthems
and allegorically arranged and disfigured,
the zombies emerged, staggered and already defeated

*I am recalling Shakespeare’s phrase, “beware the Ides of March” from the play Caesar. It is an example of how a phrase sticks in the mind and becomes grist for whatever the imagination conjures, like a prop. My mind makes association with coincidental events and assigns prophetic feelings because it is self absorbed and like a young dog needs to be constantly amused. It sees a connection between signing a contract on the 15th of the month of March, or starting a job on the 15th of the month and the tragedy that ensues and makes a metaphysical conceit. Mind on fate is hope as a ping pong ball batted by a predisposed despair. This is the beginning of tragedy.

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