And then I realize,
Even we machinists have it hard
Now that the water has gone bad.
Me and Darin work for Jacob’s dad,
Who struggles to make ends meet,
Who keeps tattered shoes
On Jacob’s feet,
And pays us weakly with crumpled bills
Which we then spend on cinema and it
Kills our acceptance of complacent
The steam hose doesn’t work
Anyway, without fuel.
Now, after seeing what real magic is worth,
I hang out in the artists’ room at the community center.
It’s basically a big dim dorm, painted green
Like the outside of a stomach
And in the middle is a sandbox,
Yellow silt encased in grey wood.
There are large rubber casts of different feet
You can use them to make tracks in the sand,
A satisfying endeavor, in the moment,
But easily smoothed over
By the staff at closing
or someone else with
Just as much intention.
Edward Norton is there, and I pretend to be impressed.
“Hey man, ain’t you that guy!” I guffaw.
“What was it like to work with Michael Keaton?”
He smiles the sly smile that helped him get famous
Playing guys who were actually two guys. Tyler. Hulk.
“I’ve got nicotine stains on my fingers. They hurt.”
My run-in with stardom compels me to take her
to a big rock show. An old, growling folk singer,
Too entrenched in his legacy
to do anything else, he
Plays one song and then exits.
It makes me sad because his mark has been made,
who am I to criticize? What have I done?
We go out into the hallway as the crowd grows
Impatient, restless, offended. They feel bamboozled.
The old crow is there, and he smiles the same way Norton did from beneath his little cowboy hat, over his
He is not in a hurry, he is not threatened.
I take pictures of him and her.
I get good shots.
Social media-worthy shots
It is fun-and-games until I realize she is no longer coming home with me.
She has grown, evolved, elevated, and left me behind
She is mature and ready for bigger adventures,
And she takes his hand and leaves for Europe.
So I become a journalist in an effort to spite the world
Or assassinate the magician.