along a city street,
sprawling;
a young child
in a stroller
bawling;
as if his pain
lay at the heart
of everything.
his parents,
unperturbed,
ignore him presently,
though they bear him
lovingly.
like a nestling
in a tree,
or a diamond
set in jewellery:
the world around,
no less than him:
secure, flourishing,-
not exempt from harm-
though safe enough
for him to learn,
after the tears,
how precious he is,
how much part
of love.
there is a moment
when what is immense
is evident
in buildings;
when their rhythms
harmonize
with the grandeur of the sun.
such music is performed
when of an afternoon
light defines a wall
or in the aperçu
given by the window
unequivocal
at dawn.
magic is the worst job
anyone can think of.
each time i catch the dove
sleeping in my hat
i think how impotent
i am, how really no one
gives a damn about illusion.
if you want to see
a magic trick
give me fifty bucks
and watch how fast
it disappears.
not only that:
once down the hatch,
i'll let you marvel at the fact
your wallet’s gone-
as i am, shazaam!
by sleight of hand
transported
via tamazepam
to the nearest gutter,
to offer you safe passage
from the footpath
to your cab.
i’ll give you a minute
to decide if you’d like
to help me with my act.
in exchange,
i offer my assistant
who comes with cape
and benefits; or else
as i mentioned,
buy me a drink:
you and your friends
can sit rabbit-eared
and listen
while i school you in defeat.
I haven’t told you
what i think,
if that man
must be silenced,
as i was silent
all the years
he taught me
how to sing.
The crotchets
on the stave
spread panic
in my brain,
yet to sing them
was to gain
a place
away from him.
He would clasp me
by the wrist, pull
my zipper
down an inch,
run a finger
down my prick,
say how grown up
i seemed.
He was quick to warn
since i was growing tall
how my instrument
would crack
like a porcelain
knick knack,
but saying that
how nicely i performed.
Colour is the memory of the sun.