Iron twists, brown dullness
rust multiplies and weakens
sounds, smells, touch of a city
below my feet vibration.

Rock and glass
people smiling, frowning, running
a fountain turned off for the winter
and birds invade the caverns 
of the damned.

Sunken eyes and sacred smiles
the salt air and poison water.
Intrigue at the exotic
repulsion at the sameness
regiment, routine, a clock strikes one
and one again to infinity.

A black case and a gun
a shining blade or baseball bat.
A loud wail, flashing lights
someone over there just died.
A tear, a drop of blood
a used condom on the sidewalk.
Neon electricity buzzes
as a bum yells for god.

(he says It will all fall down
into the center
from which it was born.)

It is at once fascinating and repulsive;
scary, vile.
It compels and welcomes
with dirt beneath its fingernails
and a dusty handprint on your back
after it hugs
and says welcome.

You are marked for life, 
branded by the twentieth century.


I've had it for years and it follows wherever I go.
Some days it's strong and sharp in its darkness,
other days I struggle to see it and fear it is gone.

It moves around me, sometimes in front sometimes behind.
Leading, following, maybe just beside,
but absent of a shoulder to lean on.

Its silence provides a voice sublime
and as it slips over a paved sidewalk,
the Not sound, divine in nature, calls up to heaven.

I've watched it change for years,
bigger and wiser, taller wider
small and large, through happy sad, a constant friend.

It's life has been long, as long as mine,
it wears its age and experience with grace and dignity,
not a wrinkle to be found on the strong brow 
of my silent companion.

When I sleep, it has an honored position below me,
alone I watch it stretch along the wall,
a whole or part, a projection; the outside of my soul.

Should I become blind and never see it again,
I think I would miss its simple pleasure;
a reminder of the sun, the moon, and the electric power of man.

When I die I will take this thing that is mine and mine alone,
to the grave never to be seen again,
and I will mourn its passing at the moment 
when others mourn mine.

For now, I will choose to sit alone beside the sun,
and spin in circles below the moon,
wonderful mortality I worship the light and dark.



Seemingly elegant
whenever near, a high
high note
oh a mystery
to one
to all
whenever the door creaks
or there's a knock on the floor
perhaps I'll remember
to look,
look behind the shadow
cast by a moon
a red body of terran ecstasy
containing an old friend
or a friend no more
who waves and follows
in the tail of forlorn regrets
and a life of lonely solitude
condemned for life to wanting time to straighten
again to love
to move
with the seeming elegance
of another lifetime.

[Cover | Surroundings | Creativity | Darkness | Life | Nature | Love | Peace | Epilogue]

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"A Look is my Will to Be" ©1997, 1999 Paul Mascott/ Masco Music, all rights reserved

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Paul Mascott and Masco Music retain all rights to this work.