MAGIC WITHOUT TEARS

I chased my pulse home, half-heartedly,
after magic turned me to a sappy tear-rag.
The die spun, plummeted from the crest.

A necromancer, ice-old Reaper-like,
is a destiny that some strive to seek,
a voice of magical roseleaf-like

softness, like a Paperman’s inky fingers,
pores full of life-giving word-spinning,
like Death photographing Life

through a black puddle, reflecting
sheepish wanderings. Magic
makes fruit bats turn to blood.

Magic makes Polkinghorne
stop the finger-pointing.
Magic will make one’s betrothed

turn into a trapeze artist.
If that person is already a trapeze artist,
welcome to a world of The Intoxicated Oz.

Please refrain from the obvious retort:
to have faith & to feel no shame over
checking out other people. That’s magic.

It’s a Marketplace out there, with coupons
& promotions piled up in your lap. Laughter
just turned to a dreaded ogre,

organ of brass to spill out of my tear ducts,
a minor trigger for a fearless spirit of inquiry
passed over into the eternal world.

A great shadow in the public eye
where nutcases like myself have hit the ground
running, with flamboyant eye.

Magic is full of holes; a quiver
of expectation, your nervous twitch
before forcing down falcon eggs.

Bias, bitten. The logical part of one’s brain
wants to breed a new warlord,
while the other part of one’s brain is all blood & tears.

What is magic without tears?
Sign up now if you want to be in Gnomer Territory.
Sign up now if you want to have your leg pulled

in a non-joking way. It is impossible for
The Privilege to be “all mine,”
but if it is magic that you are after, come back

from youthfully running away to a (dead?) sea,
& allow the caged bird of your heart
to sing what caged birds dream.