PEACE [for Amelia, Wilson, Christopher & All] By Paul McLean TIME comes when you wish you had been kind to every soul whose path you crossed & realize you had not. Like the cinders floating on the wind toward the window of this loft from the concrete plant yonder to enter whatever you do through the gaps in the panes into the lungs of this small child your beautiful son Lachlan who knows nothing of ash disease or dying & wrong & not. Was it TIME propelled the orb or the orb self-propelled? Look out ~ She's moving. In that one moment ... the fire burning ~ passion aflame in Ithaca to conceive a child & after, to feast on the flesh of animals in the midst of loud voices lights too bright not knowing not in your head that He is coming. Now this world is ending this calendar is over You can feel it in you through & through your sense of it is precise It is precious that much is clear like a day after snow has fallen & the the storm passed before anyone has risen you pull on your boots you walk the trail to the mountains no tracks but yours in the powder hardly a sound at all but the crunch of your weight packing the snow underneath your treading the incline into the tree line the Pondy pines & cover & you wish you were light enough that your passing would not even disturb one snowflake each one ~ you learned along the way somewhere, maybe school or church or the TV ~ is unique at some point you stop look out ~ upon the scene the spectacle of Nature arrayed a panaroma far below you [though up & down & all around barely registers, here] where you stand breathing not too hard the wind(s) on the face it feels good the intent movement has made you warm you could go further but you do not you reach with gloved hands to the sky ... you were young then though it didn't seem like it you were thinking of other things you thought & behaved differently or not at all & maybe it's better to not ponder too much the profound mystery of living & being alone altogether with everything in the world ∞ on the Hill you & water became relatives by the fire your relatives become blood with tobacco you dreamed & pray for everything that moves everything holy peering at the heavens all the stars & whatnot you see more or less depending on the song you are singing friends standing beside you singing too ~ same song forever inside it forms like a halo on an angel in a painting within your ribcage or between your cells a spirit a mind a ghost dances ... in the paint you found it & to not make it real is killing you driving you mad under the circumstances because of conditions beyond your control ~ TIME is the only object Sure, man but that will not [as a subject for discourse, an idea, a negation, ultimately] create your art, for you, & it is not all subjective, in quinacridone red gold on redwood from dead & down harvested on Morris Graves' land, lovely property near the bird sanctuary you draw chakras representing kundalini about which you know nothing, for certain & the wood splits & there's an earthquake or thunder & the rending cracks open each one at 3AM in the morning or thereabouts to the pema kar the white lotus at the summit on the pinnacle of your skull between you & the clouds an Opening out of the muck a flower a funny monkey & Highlander through & through past the otherworldly monstrous & loyal guards with barely a scuffle to See her Green Tara on her throne & you exchange formalities, such as they are there ...she commands you to quit fighting the only thing action you cannot do so did Joan years later no mas (~ Roberto) righteous anger she smiled satchidananda & you born of the dragon long ago ~ it served you ... until the chill morning air & your shivering wake you your cold blankets your clenching fingers your hollow throat your swollen tongue no possessions aching all over your body no one around you hold It close to you you weep for Vision & it was always this way & will be forever ~ Old man - December 14, 2:51 AM, Bushwick
