They promised to level you up
After a six month grind.
Took a ball point pen
kept your eyes on the macguffin.
but there's still rats in the basement
never made enough Rupees
To trade in this wooden sword
no matter how many teeth
or claws you trade in
You're still stuck behind a register
or mopping up XP from the local wildlife's viscera

During your daily quest
turning in the farmers daughter
you noticed a woman promptly positioned in your way.
Some bandits killed her father
and she just stuck around
Until you hit the local tavern
and drank too much whiskey
you ran off to fetch her some pearls
then while digging for CLAMS
You met a pirate man
Who asked you to steal back his map.
while you were finding his buried treasure
you happened to find a letter that
forced you into a coffee shop
and here you sit.

always fell for the macguffin
Now you caught the most obvious one.
Always running around, trading pelts for clues
But they just kept you busy so you never traveled out of town.
if you ever headed out

You'd be slaying more than dragons
there's more than princesses to set free
out here in the big world.
your next quest is self actualization
go Sattle up on that griffin.
and head to the farthest town.
You don't know how to make the gold right now

but if you stay here.
how are you gonna find out?

Years after giving up the game
for good I still dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
a chipped red racquet,

high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue ***** fresh in the can,

my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors,
portholes slashing avocado

carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a stark white cube to toe the red

service line once again only to find
my forehand serve impeded
by stacked furniture and packing
crates arranged into the crooked lane

plat of medieval Bruges.  
Racquetball,
a game of angles
gone sadly out of fashion,

the MacGuffin in my dreams,
as it was in my playing days
when you were my true opponent,
King of Center Court running me,

stroking passing shots, methodical
while I hurled myself heedless
headlong into walls, losing on points,
nursing trophies of bruises.

Years after giving up the game
for good I still dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
a chipped red racquet,

high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue ***** fresh in the can,

my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors,
portholes slashing avocado

carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a stark white cube to toe the red

service line once again only to find
my forehand serve impeded
by stacked furniture and packing
crates arranged into a crooked lane

plat of a miniature medieval
Bruges.  Racquetball,
a game of angles gone
sadly out of fashion,

the MacGuffin in my dreams  
and my playing days when you
were my true opponent.  Never one
for racquet sports, you ran me

stroking passing shots, methodical
while I hurled myself heedless
headlong into walls, losing on points,
nursing trophies of bruises.

Years after giving up the game
for good I dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
my chipped red racquet,

high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue ***** fresh in the can,

my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors, square
portholes slashing avocado

carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a white cube to toe the red

service line once again only to find
my forehand serve impeded
by a jumble of tables,
five drawer files and armoires,

packing crates, roll top desks and bureaus
arranged into the crooked lane plat of medieval Bruges.  
Racquetball,
a game of angles

gone sadly out of fashion,
is the MacGuffin in my dream
as it was in my playing days
when you were always the real opponent,

King of Center Court
running me, stroking passing shots
while I dove heedless, headlong into walls,
losing on points, nursing my trophy of bruises.

You ask me if having a baby in this world is selfish.

I imagine two stout bodied genderless dwarves.
with beards.
hand pumping a minecart down
subway tracks in Boston.

Hear the rattling
cart wheels along iron tracks.
the crackling fire of a lit torch
Illuminating an obvious macguffin
a glimmering maguyvery boulder
in the side of the tunnel.

This vision is a testament to how well I pay attention
When I have tunnel vision.

One pulled lever slows the minecart to a screaching stop
the dwarves zelda bomb their way inside

There is a man behind it
the size of a mountain
hooked up to a bypap machine
umbilical corded to a television

he does not know whether he is nocturnal,
trusts his wristwatch to tell time
Which was over $5,000 dollars.
trusts this watch
about as far
as he can throw his money away.
So He collects watches.

I ask you.
Does this man sound alive?

Do you think he more closely
resembles a metaphor
For children zombied into media leashes.
another pet to pitch in the graveyard
of working class
blades of grass leaning on the T
nodding off to sleep?

Or is he more like us.
escapists
wandering eyes
With roots in our mattresses
Shackled in the entertainment
Always breathing
inflating never creating.
or breathing out.

Would a child help us out?
would that be selfish?

breath can we still
tubes of oxygen up our noses.
can we rip out the catheder
save with will power
would a child somehow spin
eugenic honey
royal bee propaganda jelly
Would we see the world without sepia
no more screen filters
less headaches
less screen time
advil addiction.
Two less pills taken
comitted to attention.
stuck in tunnel vision
smoke and mirrors
are so shiny after blue pills

This mountain of a man
said to ask the man on the mountain
and I was so deep in my grave
I decided to dig down thinking
If This is hell I must be at the earths
molten core, so the road up
is just as long as the road
in any direction so long as i went straight.
But I change directions all the time.
And I still haven't hit the surface
And I keep building boulders
to keep out the cave rats
and making them obvious,
glimmerig macguffins so adventurers
will zelda bomb them open
and find me sitting here
watching the world go by
losing track of time
But always checking the clock on my wrist.
Because it's so beautiful
and biological.
The ticking is so loud
I'm deafened to the humming
of my oxygen machine.
the television,
screaching minecart breaks
My front door being blown open.
By zelda bombs

I'm stagnant with nothing but
my dreams and a metranome
Counting down to the day
I hate this television enough
To turn it off

Trust this clock enough to turn it back.

For a breif moment hear the
screaching subway tracks
The whirring of my bipap,
The bombs going off
not just at my front door
but all over the world.
blowing open my eyes to see finally

that life isn't worth a bomb shelter.
If I can't be selfish,

**** repopulting the earth.
I am going to paint drooping clocks
eat non-parishables ironically
and Die an honest man.

Years after giving up the game
for good I still dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
a chipped red racquet,

high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue ***** fresh in the can,

my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors,
portholes slashing avocado

carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a stark white cube to toe the red

service line once again
only to find my forehand
serve impeded by jumbled
tables, five drawer files, armoires, roll top desks and bureaus

arranged into the crooked lane plat of medieval Bruges.  
Racquetball,
a game of angles
gone sadly out of fashion,

the MacGuffin in my dreams,
as it was in my playing days
when you were my true opponent,
King of Center Court running me,

stroking passing shots, methodical
while I hurled myself heedless
headlong into walls, losing on points,
nursing trophies of bruises.

The skin on your lips
is the type
of magical MacGuffin
that makes you believe
in enchanted forests
at midnight.
They swim
in the reddish blue, velvet mist.
And after all
isn't magic getting something for nothing?

I told you I dreamt
of plum colored butterfly wings.
You bared your teeth
in a warlock grin and leaned in
to kiss my fingertips.
You drew mystic symbols
on my bare shoulders
and you whispered spells in my ears,
softly.
I vaguely remember
the purple steam around us
before I was way up in the air.
And you said you wanted nothing
but to leave the mauve
lovebite on my hip in return.

Try as I may
To tame it,
Rein it in
I can’t contain it
Just evade it as a talking point
And silently disclaim it
It’s the same old story
Reimagined
Beast that kills
The beauty pageant
Tragic downfall
Of the hero  
Bank accounts
Reduced to zero
Sheer calamitous
Despair
Sempiternal
My nightmare
Aware it all
Concludes
In nothing
Life itself
A mere MacGuffin
Stuffed inside
A womb
Entombed
Then by oblivion
Consumed

In a chair he sits
with

sunlight on his
face

yet it's
still opaque

the twitch
of his eye

only
a MacGuffin

so don't expect
a revelation

because as someone
once

long ago said

what remains in the heart
must be obscure

Whit Howland © 2020