Prism

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