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Michael McGuire
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Telling Time by Clock
The chisel on the stone, Inevitability; the ghost that haunts the bone,
And horizons lit of a false dawn,
Slowly sink back into the patient night,
The burden loosely falling from the back of the dawn.
The scheduled feedings of the day,
Directions in themselves being the way,
And the traffic moves to the stoic rhythm,
Of a god on narcotics manmade plan,
To steal the life from the dead motion's dream.
The circle of birth surrounded by,
The pain of death and the wondering why,
Time is a part of the elemental bliss,
But the clock can't tell what time it is.
Desire and the knowing of the river,
Does the sea deposit or deliver,
With astral meanings unread by man,
The stars clock and climb the heavens,
Until the innate doom defines the soul of the song.
Driven by the numbers painted face,
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We can't tell our time from our place,
And the world is a graveyard for the dust of the universe,
The electric dust of our making,
The charged and woeful being of our flesh.
Turned an ugly duckling into an ugly swan, Measured here and now; not the great-beyond, Time is a part of the elemental bliss,
But the clock can't tell what time it is.
We bleed not by measure but by blood,
All rivers run lost in the loose milk of the flood.
Now; is all time set for the mutiny of the motion, In the gravity of daily-dogma divided; distended, In daily-bread actualized and focused in the nucleus of being,
And then stultified in this telling time by clock, Until the welcoming of the world's end breaks this rhetorical-rhythm,
And the clockmaker proves to be a dream-taker, So god's own tic and toc and real rhythm by rhyme take the dance,
And the work of day labor is so; graced by the work of ages.
We should be telling time by star,
Living time by kiss and scar,
Time is a part of the elemental bliss,
But the clock can't tell what time it is.
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