Do you know what magic feels like?
I’m not speaking of magic tricks, or Magic: the Gathering, or Wiccan magic.
I’m talking about real magic.
“Books are a uniquely portable magic.”
When I was growing up, my father encouraged reading. It was kind of a thing with me. Every day I was reading books. The books could be educational, religious, young adult, and on and on and on. I read so much that I developed a love for reading.
Continue reading Magical Thinking in the Atheist Community
You scream into the void
this how it goes:
war, war, war, you
Continue reading How to Destroy the World in 140 Characters
Image by Forsaken Fotos
Have you ever missed someone
who did not exist?
Have you ever considered the strings
from which stars are suspended
throughout the emptiness of your own being?
Have you ever wondered at the pneumatic
nature of laughter or traced the curvature
of a swan’s neck through the spaces between
a shuddering whimper
and that stone shattering the delirium
of your glass house? Have you ever
witnessed the rationing of an idea
so that the waves just beneath the lake’s surface
would not be moved to dance back into yesterday?
Have you ever dreamed of lavatating
in pools of too uniform tears
beneath that terrible forge
that touches the sky with its blue mockery?
Have you ever found yourself
denoted by your mask, that one
that denies the precision
of the cut that revealed the nakedness of your heart?
In response to MindLoveMisery Menagerie’s
Jasper Francis Cropsey (1823–1900)
Fall would follow summer,
a too affectionate and whimpering dog, through ages
of excited apostasy–the apostate, Fall–
and we would ooooh and aaaah
through the beauty of dying so slowly,
voyeurs to all manner of unashamed flora
exposing to us their seed-bare glory
as they heralded that true death (you know that
death that hurries over the backs
of scentless winds).
But summer, tired of being followed,
filed for a restraining order.
Photograph by Thomas Nugent
We are swept away
in this blue light
and it isn’t the vast infinity
of impenetrable day.
What is satisfaction
if it isn’t a commodity
or what the Jones’ have
in their garage or living room?
I tried to murder a cricket
with a can of Olde Spice
body spray because it
interrupted the noise
banging on the drums
inside my ears.
And as I drown the world
and its people in a bathtub
built from my intentional
disassociation from life,
I do it with the realization
that it isn’t God,
who tells me
I could save their souls
with an upgrade.
You were the mantra of a billion
blooming beneath the sea.
We were submerged,
walking on fire, flying on the fumes of bones
beating drums behind a curtain of dreams
and we soared, our sore ecstasy
the lily on Rumi’s lips–
all along I was
buried in a forest,
the whole of forever
and all along the soil
would find itself
enriched by the amnesty
of your pulse.
You wake, and you can’t wait
to see her,
whatever dreamt dusted in sun dance radiance,
but you see her, her eyes
beneath her eyelids
overcome by the practiced choreography
of sleep, and there is crust at the corners
and maybe a little snot or saliva.
You had thought her hair a starburst
all those days ago,
but it is more
the brambles of untouched woods
struggling with the undergrowth
kicking at the roots in a vain effort
at stealing the light.
You thought her
once, but this is reality. Gabriel
opted for a didgeridoo to sign the end of time,
you think, and there are no more
dreams left to dream,
no more poetry to write,
no more silly odes,
her, Gabriel, and your shattered illusions.
And still, somehow, she is
more perfect in the exquisite mess
of morning beneath a chiding sun.
You imagine that is love…
What you see in the mirror
is a cake. You eat that cake and get
and you blame it on the Mexicans.
A cake. You sleep at night
swaddled in your delusions.
Who hurts you? Is it the maid? Is it
the brothers who cut your lawn?
Or is it the chicks
who clean the shit from the lip of your toilet?
I’m betting it was the Arabs.
The trouble with other gods
is that they’re as real for the infidels
as they are for you.
I bet it was that Indian
who took your IT job.
He eats what he can find.
It isn’t cake, and he isn’t fat.
We could always fuck.
We could always dip our toes in a vain sky
and make love of paper and graphite, and the moment
could always be the womb.
We could always dance.
We could always tempt the flowers growing from the walls
and watch the fits of brave men
roar through the excitement of red and smoke and black dust
the same moment we find God.
We could always sleep, but sleep is for the weak
and the early bird wants us to know
We could always sing.
We could always lose our keys somewhere beyond the edge
of 4 AM tungsten,
something like touching the bottom of the bottle with our feet.
We could always fuck.
We could always close our eyes to a rising sun.