SIGHTLESS

Somewhere, there should be an all knowing eye, a Pinkerton pupil that never sleeps, an orb which rises above the plain of our lowliest thoughts but never sets across terrain scorched by a midnight sun.   

Something larger than the retina hovering above a pyramid on the back of a dollar bill. Stuffed inside wallet or purse. Never knowing any horizon beyond a tangled, musty silk shroud.
  
What we want or desperately need is vision that won't require obligation or oblation, sacrifices to an unforeseeable future.
  
All we'll get is an iris etched deep as a tattoo on an upturned palm. Accrued risk shatters the gift with a casual handshake or unexpected high five.

G.A. Scheinoha writes from the insular neighborhood of his comfort zone in the country, a couple miles away from the nearest town. He lives on a postage stamp parcel of land, a mere 1/10th acre but owns a vast intellectual estate; plays, short stories, columns, prose poems, reviews and verse, a million words since 1979. Much of this output has appeared in newspapers, magazines and websites in Australia, Canada, England and all across the U.S. Recent appearances include COLOR WHEEL, PEARL, SHIP OF FOOLS and WISCONSIN POET'S CALENDAR.