By: Brian Barbeito

(For the electric light queen)

“Mama always told me not to look into the eyes of the sun.”
-Bruce Springsteen, Blinded By The Light

You are in the eyes of the sun. I saw that a ponytail braided sat on some kind of sweater, and above, the mouth pursed as always, fine, and angular but sensual. How is that? The forces conspired to create something that was aside, that was different. The eyes of the sun. The eyes of the sun are actually dark eyes, paradoxically shining a preternaturally bright double fleck of light, older than the sun herself. The sun, a woman? Of course. You are the eyes of the sun. And the ears and lips, the curvature of the arm. I was watching that day when you spoke to me, as if I was standing both in time and eternity at once. White blouse with some red markings. Jeans. Shoes. Well, everyone mostly wears shoes. I waited there for you for a lifetime, to drive up in the rain, and there were pangs much like hunger pangs, only they could never and can never be identified, so strange they were. Maybe you are not the eyes of the regular, the colloquial, the commonly thought of sun. You are eyes of another sun. I might think so. Someone once told me they didn’t know what the deal was with you, but that you were an odd one, that there was something up with you. That was for sure, eh? The eyes of the sun. I saw another woman like you once, and she spoke the same way, had the same nuance and affect, similar lips and vices- covert vices, vices of the heart you might say-much more serious than nicotine, drink, chocolate, or anything so prosaic. Ah, and the woman got it in her noggin that she was a star child, possibly from Sirius. The funny thing is, though I would never admit such- I secretly believed her- she was on to something. That is what this hack bard’s intuition says. I think you, eyes of the sun, goddess of urban streets north, braided ponytail and slight smile, are from Sirius. They say the magical and mystical is only the unexplained. That there is nothing paranormal but only normal undiscovered. They are right and they are wrong. There is part they can never know, and that is the experience of seeing the eyes of the sun. Brown, appearing black, looking through the world, lithe body, created by such and such gods. The alchemists’ progeny I once called it all I think. You are impossible fun, I would suppose, and idealized too, yes it’s true. I had to leave it all. You had to also. But you are a clue. A clue in a large and possibly infinite puzzle. Infinity’s clue. See, with swinging hips, and cotton adorning shoulders perfect, with a voice and language, a tone and melodious way, it is seen that there must be something good and well throughout the space buzz, the cosmic soup, the spinning orbs, and all the rest. You are the hope. You are loved. You are grace. You are charm. You are purses with peppermint gum. You are peppermint gum. You are soul candy. You are most obviously eye candy. You are you. You pretend to love. You are not completely whole. You are idealized, because that is sometimes what poets do. You are a travelling affluent contrarian gypsy ripe,-both indifferent and wanton at the same time. Your denim is ripped at the knee but you have confidence. See, you are on purpose and purposeful. You reach under quickly, from the outside, and adjust something. You are resplendent. You are stronger than the power of malachite and much older also. You might have been true, but are not true. Not true because you are really only nerves and blood and bones, eyes and brains and toes- walking and talking and yes, even being- but that is all. That is grand, but not transcendental, transferable. It is only transient. A transient hotness. Besides, everyone knows the sun has no eyes. You are the one with the braids and the walk and all of it. You are the eyes of the sun.