Simian Saviour

image borrowed from bing

Simian Saviour

I only harbor a wet sliver
of the big truth, cuddling it
like a broken piece of stained glass
that I pull out sometimes and stare at,
trying to imagine the entire picture,
the whole abstract artfulness,
merely a perturbed puppet working
on the infinite puzzle, no landscape
vast enough to lie it down within;

but it is very much like viewing a door handle
while trying to visualize the actual vehicle,
which takes on several phantom existences,
as I have--hopscotching across centuries,
searching for more odd-shaped pieces
and the perfect holes to pound them into;

this time I am a man who sees ghosts
in his house, often--who doesn’t have to believe,
just has to remember to breathe when
I stumble through dimensional shifts--

yet though I have seen a UFO at 3 a.m.
on the high deserts of California,
inexplicably, I am forever denied
an audience with Him, who awaits me,
has beckoned to me through several
lifetimes, calling from the dark innards
of many forests, tall and red-eyed.

I do long for our inevitable meeting
during some night’s journey that will include
our encounter, and I will recognize Him,
have always known Him, tingling with regret
as I only study his haunts, document
his movements, memorizing the testimony
of those He has graced with his presence;

I race headlong down forest service roads
at midnight, sending out my silent salutations,
stopping in the depth of the darkness
to flick off my headlights and beat back
the gnawing fear mites that churn in my gut,
to no avail--only the night birds answer;

Is it possible that He has chosen
to elude me during this life--
will only appear to me during
my very last moments,
with his hirsute Jesus face,
taking my small hand
in his huge one,
smiling as He guides me
Home?

Glenn Buttkus

April 2012

Posted as #4 over at dVerse Poets--MTB

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