Be lucky that it's clear
that I'm here
and not in your ear
making rhymes about
******* and beer.
I'm here
knotting so many fallacies that
I could be queer
but it's clear,
I'm here.

Still here, that is.
Or... maybe I should be lucky.
Let's both not take here for granted.
Even when it aches,
like reality has some sickness
that we can neither cure nor talk down,
we must remember
that we can no more not be here
than we can be in our dreams...
If you can't understand those words
then you're struggling to be here
shifting your eyes like flickering flashlights
they **** away and bang bang bang against the hand of boredom
because the brain is running dry,
I understand.

Be here with me, dear literary vagabond,
peruse my nonsense. Take a bite.
Chew upon the syllables and forgettables,
like soggy vegetables.
Let it all melt in your mind,
like Belgian chocolate (forget the vegetables).
There's nothing here except derangement,
but
have you won the battle?
Are you still here?

The sound of turbulent water
running through the pipes.
The roar of trembling engines,
jostling and towing their vehicles
down the street.
The tap dance of computer keys
mirroring the senility of my mind...
The slamming of doors:
all these sounds,
as if reality is sonically transparent,
but
are you here with me?

This world is more transparent
than I ever gave it credit.
If you're still here,
I bid you welcome
to the magnificent world
of a millennial extravaganza,
growing beyond the cosmos as if
our minds can pierce the heart of dark
and render mystery a pale reflection of
ordinary!

Yes, if you're here,
still here,
things are very ordinary.
And I can never hide that from you.
I can never make you think these words are legendary,
because I'm here,
and I'm not not here,
so you take me for granted
and though I could spin your mind
like a world on my finger,
people will only wish they could be here with me,
when I'm dead,
but if you're reading this,
I'm here.

We live in mist and cloud
searching for warmth and mirth.

The mist fades, the clouds falter.

We each stand on a peak.
I see her glimmering smile
it banishes doubt and worry.

Who knew a smile could
be
so mollifying
so
filling, yet distant?

I look below
to the treacherous
valley.
I shiver at thought
but
omens cannot purchase
my hope.
I march forward.

Across the chasm
of maybe so
and
perhaps not
I fight the tide of
blistering denial, of
mourning and loss
but as I near,
her smile loses its bearings
it slackens and crumbles
smeared in shadow
it dies slowly
so does
my
odyssey...

Without her sunlit smile
to light the way
through treacherous valley
and darkening day
I wait, in wonder
of my eager
stupidity,
and waste away
in ravenous dismay
for her smile does fade
in the nearing
when will I learn that I
can never get
close for comfort.

I was a believer
Long after the other girls got interested in parties and boys

I would sit on my heels on the floor of the school library
And stare at the musty shelves of stories, searching for my next fantasy

I was a true believer
It seemed strange to me that while all of these characters, my friends,
kept finding magic in their worlds
mine was devoid and empty
I kept wondering, Why not me?

I was sure the magic was just hiding from me
Waiting for the right time to show itself
Waiting until I was ready to become the heroine
Every windy night, every walk into the woods,
I would think
This time, it will come for me
But it never did

I had a book on forest faeries and how to find them
After waiting and waiting all of those years
Clinging to my last hope, I decided I would give the magic one more chance
I went out to my back yard
To the perfect faery tree, with all the knots and holes in its trunk
And deep red berries stirring gently with the warm breeze
I stood under it, hands clasped, eyes closed
And waited one last time
Please I begged Please

And that was the day I stopped believing

From then on, I was determined to be a rationalist
An evidence-only type of girl
I switched to kneeling before the science fiction shelves
Followed the inventions of today's great tech scape
It was magic in its own sort of way

But my metaphoric heart has never quite given up on the romance of true magic
It loves it in a tragic, primal sort of way
It wants to make my life into a hero journey of fate and destiny
It wants there to be something more to this world
A something mysterious, a something beautiful
All my head and heart seem to do is contradict

A long time ago, I used to be a believer
But ever since I decided to give up on magic
It seems that magic has refused to set me free.