As I Turn Away from the Numinous

An old man on the porch smoking half a cigar
and listening to the sounds of butterflies in the wind
looks at me with those arched eyebrows
that ask for nothing in return.
I grin as I shuffle by, rust in my eyes.
If I feel like glass, it is because I am transparent.

Life is less than lies and more than this:
let the mountains smash through the sky
and tear the clouds.
A thousand armies writhing beneath trees of death --
rain crushes mountains as time bleeds
and darkness like lava flows from heaven.

The old man's lips are crusted white
and a gnat is dying in his beard.

"Spread ghosts as you amble,"
I think
he says -- "spin a thousand tales
of incest and gamble
life's fruits on the shears of
universal truth,
or whisper. Ya dig?"

Of course, my insides are on sale,
so I agree --
And will you judge me?

Grass shifting in the breeze mutters
life's meaning before I listen,
chain link rattles and beware of dog in red
as I turn away. He was asking too much,
that vagabond. Pistol whipped twenty years
prior? I'd rather spend the night in jail
than spend my thoughts on him.

The salt that opens my wounds
is easy talk but the pain is not,
and he is from the sea.
I'll not spend my thoughts
(cracked lips, he burns in me),
rust coated eyes turn away --
I turn away.