This Side Of Paradise

Every great storm has a center, an eye.

In the eye, you can see things clearly.

Every nation has a town, a village,

more tranquil, a Casablanca. 

Every town has a secret, magic restaurant,

a coffee shop, an eye.

Magic is scaleable, a universe 

in a drop of water.

It’s magic because it’s based in the senses.

It’s magic because no one has figured it out.

Knowledge is not wisdom.

Wisdom is magic, seeing things as they are,

Steven’s anecdote of the jar,

sitting on the sidewalk, slightly ajar.

History is a naturally occurring puzzle,

pieces fall where they may,

repetitive like a cycling storm.

Humans are rubes taken in by the Barkers,

flashes of light in an empty sky,

shiny objects as far as most of them go.

If I was any closer to paradise, I’d be on

the other side of it, as Groucho quipped.

It all remains to be seen.