Day 140 – Magic

I have put so much magic
in places it shouldn’t have been

I have sores all over
from picking apart the times

If I’m raw it’s because I never healed
If I tell the truth it’s not the whole thing
I ate too much magic I couldn’t afford
and now I keep secrets from you

But oh, sometimes I believe
we live in a place
where magic is as magic does-
if I ripped open all those scabs
would they pour out glitter,
if I went back to that place
would you meet me there?

Of course, of course
you wait there still
where magic should never have been
but each time I go back I see
your shadow
and the blisters rise again.


Day 18 – Mormons

Maybe I shouldn’t have said all that
about the magic underwear
and the magic gold tablets

and maybe I shouldn’t have laughed
when you said they
“ascended back into the heavens.”

I probably shouldn’t have asked
if you got here
on a bike.

I didn’t have to take your book
but I knew it meant
someone else
wouldn’t read it.

I’m sorry your beliefs are
foreign and hilarious to me
since I claim to be so tolerant

but you rang my bell
and you asked for it.

Year 2: Day 165 – The Truth About Magic

Saw this kid at the shop last night,
must’ve been around eighteen,
played Dylan better than Dylan ever did.
The crowd inside was breathless,
little old ladies, hippie folk singers, and me
scribblin’ like mad to get it under my thumb:
that feelin’ like magic, like the universe stopped,
like this world earned a moment of peace,
and that slipping unease
that afterward comes with the silent question,
“Now what about you?”

What I am at twenty-five
is not as much as I want to be,
stifled by the things I’ve learned are unsafe to do:
you don’t follow the artist¬†outside,
you just relax.
Blow a kiss to the stars in thanks
for a night well spent.

But back at the lab you muse about it,
toss in your restless bed about it,
roll that diamond memory around in your mouth
and believe there are more to be found.

What I am at twenty-five
is a silent fan, a secret collector of spark
inhaled and mixed with my blood and dust
and engine grease and spit
and not yet full enough
but getting close.

At eighteen I would’ve followed him outside,
but tonight I am rooted in the truth about magic,
the secret I’m pretty sure he¬†knows:
we never own it, never get it under our thumbs.
We are secret collectors of spark.
We are glowworms radiating out
the light we let in
that we cannot keep.

And we can’t do more than breathe,
in and back out.

Day 193 – I May Not Believe In Magic

I may not believe in magic, but
some days I gotta hand it to fate-
just when the days seem a losing fight
and the sparkle’s all but gone

it can realign at any time,
it can put you on your feet.

I may not believe in magic, but
I’ve certainly believed in strength-
just when I was armoring up for the fight,
accepting that recovery would be hard-won,
determined to live and to die in truth
and rejoice in the meantime hollows

the course was altered.

A bone was thrown, a break was caught,
a curtain lifted, a punishment spared,
a tree was planted to make my daily intake
of air a little sweeter, more clean.

I may not believe in magic, but
it’s working hard to change my mind
and I’m not asking questions anymore-
I may not believe in magic, but
today I think it believes in me.