| Magic Eightball I I caress the cold curves of this liquid-filled enigma, tracing each scratch the years have left as scars. This figure eight is my life. I flip it over and over, echoing humanity in its attempt for easy answers, pushing until I get the one I want. II I watch the blackened sea of thought tumble within the curve of the world's dark shell. It parts under the pressure from the answer-engraved ivory point of Intellect pricking the shaded underbellies of each question-crested wave. III Frustration sets in. I give the eightball one good shake, making sure to mix well the anger, hatred, happiness, love thrown into this plastic melting pot. I watch the dizzying turmoil swirl behind its window, cosmic laundry in the universal washer. I wonder what would happen if I cracked the door? What would be left after all the murky water drains? IV Life would hold no mystery; Humanity would be exposed, its naked facets revealed to the eyes of the Milky Way. Purpose would rattle within the plastic confines of Being, gasping for death like a fish lost in the pureness of air. V As if it were the downy head of a newborn crafted of fragile glass I lay down my eightball, allow rolling thoughts to settle back into the cradling hands of Fate as resignation leaves me to wait in the line marked "Time." |