Magic
Farmer's folk magic practices magically thinking
Hermetic alchemy is a con art, an assemblage
Fools loom our barsoom doom for the boon
Dazzle with a tantalizing figment, a fragment
To keep the con going longer, and linger
Bendable, malleable and oh so ductile
Women wired wistfully into frameworks
Dangled from them, rotten vestments
Authoritiy's assumptions assumed and presumed,
Boys and men muffled into straitjackets of sin
Magic is everywhere you look
When you know what to look for
Belief in the unseen, the hidden
The supremecy of the rough, common man
Or of the conning, sunning, cunning man
What to name the shadowed nameless then, those
Pieces of magic that describe the true
Faces of the divine in all natural and unnatural
All seen and unseen forces that guide our destiny
That aren't described in dry scientific journals
Our numinous sense is easily distracted
With shiny baubly bubbles captured freverently
And then corrupted, coopted to ugly end by those
Who would exploit the precious for the finite
Even as they lay dying faithful to the magic
That brought them there to the top of the crag
To view in perfect visibility the whole of human
Nature's vast and terrible crimes and atrocity
And seeing such, view it just and good
So as to explain with ego why blessed with luck
Even as a polluting faith burns itself out in ecstasy
Misplaced, its careless delusions, mad delirium
Irrational, thoughtless, carefree because care me?
True magical thinkers are dubious but hopeful
A miraculous savior will come to pass
And that farmer's folk magic continues
Turning offal stench into fresh sustinance
I know it's not for much longer, as the nameless
Is going unnamed no longer, regardless
Of what those bribed shrinking violet inks call Her
Magic has brought us much more manure than vegetables lately
