I Face the Unmagical

I. I face the unmagical, I grow out of fairy tales, forsaking the exotic for the unceremonial welcome home. I face the unmagical, the disappearance of a goddess and the apparition of imperfections, those windows on inner beauty. I face the unmagical, the pliable reality of God to concord to military affairs. I face the unmagical, the hatred and the back-stabbing and the twisting of the victim’s head at 180 degrees so he can see the wound. I face the unmagical, that each thought is a termite feeding, in moist darkness, on what is already rotten. II. Through abrasive language scrubbing my mind’s skin I re-enter memory: instinct, hunger and the thrill of sex. Women sponge me with their words then leave me dry so I can absorb again, blood and sweat, the tears of the material world. Language scratches my mind’s skin like tree bark on my back: reassuring cuts so my blood can mingle with that of the world, rocks piercing through my heels and toes so that the essence of the dead springs up through me like sap to nourish my mortality.