Author Archives: Timothy P. Schilling

Mystery Mansion

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Every year I’d forget. We’d ride

through the mist and

past the ghouls, the car would

dip and rise, lights

would rotate and you’d

feel you were going to tip

but wouldn’t.

Bones would rattle,

snakes would dance,

crows and an owl would stare.

It was over surely and

not so bad really

when BLAAAAAAAA!! the bus

slammed to a stop.

Blinded, you were

jerked from its path,

left then right and out

the door, returned to the

more civilly blinding

light of day.

The problem, if I may be so bold

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Is we don’t agree on the nature of being – indeed, we hardly ever even consider or discuss this – and without this foundation we can’t agree on social boundaries. The problem, moreover, is that being is not inclined to disclose itself definitively. Apparently, it is not our place to know anything with certainty. Given that, maybe we don’t actually have a problem at all, just the illusion of a problem.

            Which leads me to my next poem:

GOD INTENDED IT TO BE A MESS

Obviously