Welcome to Mike Maggio's web site, a creative space where you can explore aspects of his poetry, fiction and visual collage pieces.
For more information about Mike Maggio's work, please contact the author.
HE CAME TO THE DESERT
he was tired of the city, the
carefully planned gardens cradled
neatly side by side like so many cluttered boxes
it was all he could do it was the
environment he insisted the need to get away
from the tall cool trees, the feisty philodendrons
that lined the walks in perfectly straight rows pointing
him this way and that according to their whims, depriving him
of the freedom to choose between the mighty fine line and
the road that is not so narrow as once again to lead him astray
he wanted to get away
to strip himself of the layers of soot that had begun to
accumulate, attach themselves to his body in oddly shaped
patterns: the squares, the circles, the triangles it was
like some strange disease, organisms from outer space having
made their way through the hole in the ozone layer
how could he face the people how could he bare himself to the women who
continued to crowd his rectangular black book oh he was in a
state he was he wanted no more, could bear no more of it he wanted
STARK
RELIEF
so he followed himself along the sand dunes counted them
feverishly like breasts down into the fundamental cleavage to the spot
where emptiness is nothing more than time
and space wrapped up in the clean creamy desert
drifts descended
into the empty vortex and out again it
rippled along the landscape before him like a vast naked
woman, led him on, beckoned him with its smooth billowing contours
it was midnight or so by then (by then he had discarded
his invaluable timepiece, by then the jewels would sparkle for no one
but the wily wispy devils that appeared to him every now and
then, jinns sent to test his very conviction) when the moon
revealed its fleshy white buttocks and the stars winked at him
like the coy vixens that they were and the
trail of clothing he had left behind had
long been buried in the sand warps that continued to follow
him, to wipe out every trace of his whereabouts (were they
devils too, he wondered, or angels sent to protect his highly exposed existence)
he stood there
naked like a newborn lover like a groom whose virgin
bride stops short blushing as he stands before
her in all his primal glory and he flapped his
hands, stood firmly atop the mount like Moses, let his manhood fly
freely in the desert wind, cried out to no one in particular and
wondered if it fell off if he flailed himself with its rough
leathery surface and faced them flat and shameless would he
still be a man
would he still be considered a man
and he was small against the universe
and the days passed, stumbled one upon the other so quickly he
could not possibly count them though he vowed he would try
he felt no thirst no hunger only the
soft pelting of the sand against his
rough well-bronzed skin
and God saw that it was good
and he sank to his knees, prostrated himself
let the sand cover him like a plush mantic blanket
lay his head humbly to rest in the open palm of his
unworthy hand as the sun ran off leaving him cold and anxious
God will reveal, he cried
and he searched for an answer
through the ancient grains of sand
Copyright 2009 by Mike Maggio
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