Forced Sorcery/Pay the Sage


Illustrations of a prophet
mounted on a silver faucet
sweat out gold allotted only
to thirsters lingering at his
wealth’s weeping well whenever we

catalogue from our dreams all scenes
sleep bleeds into our headache’s crease
migraining flocks of unwanted
thoughts from subconscious industries
onto assemblies of lines wrought


to contain truth in proportion
to certain moods when your ocean
dries; destitution desert-like
winds its drought through intuition
crippling even this wizard I

call-up and call-out on his lie—
great profits sacrificed to buy
us thirsting wanderers boats in
which to capsize; dreams sink when rise
expectations gargantuan


and so, raisin-lipped, I laugh at
thieving attempts at grasping it:
this tyranny of distance by
which fate and this magus divide
us, in which we happen to find
our Selves gasping, Let us survive!