Interjection
What
were you going to say
before
the wind swept you
silently
into the bay
where
the ocean birds are nesting
and
the rocky shards of the treacherous cliff
fell
from a height
and
damn near took your breath away
what
were you going to say
before
I made that stupid slip
that
sealed your lips up
before
my stone cascade
of
serial ifs and butts
and
avalanches of rough interjections
turned
thoughts to dust
before
the wind turned and I had my way
what
were you going to say
Where
the magic comes from
Where
the magic comes from is a mystery
as
the word implies
we
do not understand it
we
do not know how this force emanates from that
or
under which conditions it arrives at
we
just alter the bones
we
just move the stones around
we
set about the bells and smells and sit
we
wait for the serpent to strike us
when
we wait for the words
to
roil and coil
and
sag like the smoke we spat while we wait
for
inspiration, grandeur
we
sit like the Sphynx fixed on sand
we
intuit the most abstract of concepts in cosmology
as
we wait on our hands
to
type and spin
open
the silent box of superstrings and make lines
we
make experience of moments
turn
experiments into sound
arguments
and outlooks
even
as the force outside falls reluctantly on us
our
honest outlook is the ground
the
lightning rod
for
a higher power
for
where the magic comes from is a mystery
the
best that we can do is stick around
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