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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 9, Number 4, December 2015

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Guy Simser
Kanata, Ontario, Canada


Face to Face

Show me a sane man and I will cure him for you.

—C.G. Jung

Before going to bed this somber November night, I stand before my hazy mirror, see again that being I justly fear; being who, while impaling me with mordant smirk, troubles to hear or speak; and tomorrow morning that being will be there again, forcing me to stand before it, bare and shivering, until finally we ask, as one, while ogling each other oddly, “Pray tell me where you’d rather be?”

Shaking the toilet
window’s candle flame
Samhain Mummers

Throughout my blustery night, recalling the tension between Freud and Jung and my naive years of hymns so eagerly sung, I earnestly pursue the imagist Stevens, who in reply to my pleas hisses down his nose, We don’t see metaphors! Thus armed and half hidden in dawn’s long veil, I press the mystery behind my mirror until, after a silent stare-down we as one repeat, Be gone! I don’t see metaphors! Then each weakening, pleads, And you?

Under standstill clouds
that gyrating eagle
hovering over what?

Yes, it’s hard to decide from which side of this mundane mirror truth resides; and so this morning, face to face, I foam up to put my straight razor to the test, then shut my eyes and hold my breath . . .

Swallowed in faith
with his High Mass wafer
a Dali ant

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