Sorcery, Whatever (a poem)

Monday, February 24, 2025

I dance in my garage almost daily,
very rarely would I not get down,
not boogie at least once or twice—
the shake of me to the magic of music,
can’t resist it.

Call it sorcery, call it whatever,
the spell still lingers,
still hums beneath my skin,
a phantom frequency, a tether.

American girl—
she still holds it over me,
like a song half-sung,
like a name I can’t forget,
like the flicker of neon behind my eyes
long after the night has shut down.

That’s wizard, Annie,
the sun will come out tomorrow,
Daddy Warbucks, come adopt me.
Man, that’s some real bullshit,
but I loved it,
watched it three or four times as a child,
over and over on HBO Max.

That and The Last Starfighter,
Mannequin, Top Gun,
ran those three betas like
four billion and three times,
till the tape whined, till the lines ghosted the screen,
till the stories were written into my bones.

Chopper in my head,
3PO’s ticker,
the skills of the Bad Batch,
power run it—
ridiculous.

Can’t even remember its name,
the dumbest droid,
and it still helped us all.

I like me a K-2SO,
the right kind of pessimist,
ready to punch fate in the throat,
talk shit while saving your life.

My neighbor’s DEA,
feels like Breaking Bad
except I don’t cook meth
and I’m fully legal,
but we like to pretend.

So savage, this virtual reality,
role-playing three levels deep,
Inception in the walls,
the kicker? Time lost,
my heart locked away
in the shambles of us.

The plunge of the protagonist
into the pit of power,
Luke Skywalker, Rey,
Palpatine’s grip,
vampire teeth in the cave.

Cracks in the mask,
Ben Solo,
I see you, bro—
I know what I need to do
but not sure I have the strength.

You know the rest.

Now I’m covered,
a shroud unmasked,
scared of my shadow,
Emperor’s pawn,
watching the empire
knuckle Jakku
just after dawn.

The Wick, the gangs, the pain,
gold coins for bodies on the floor,
loyalties burned down to blood and bullet casings,
silent nods across the room,
unspoken debts still breathing.

Channeling the Juice vibes,
if he wasn’t so sing-songy,
if the auto-tune cracked,
if the pain hit raw,
if the 808s
sounded like doors closing forever.

Michael suffered,
so we could reduce pop
to a cold AI system.

So we could strip the soul,
run it through the wires,
teach the machine to moonwalk
without ever feeling the beat.

The revolution and its victims,
the supposed,
the shroud of fans—
is it legal? I don’t know.
We might not find out either.

Negative, Ghostrider—
the pattern is full.
What to do?
Full send.

I’m so small,
I felt like I always had to be loud.

I’m in a store, and I’m singing.
ELF powers—
ignorance levels max, pro settings engaged.
No stealth mode, no shame,
volume set to ALL CAPS,
feedback loop of chaos,
a glitch in the algorithm of normal.

Ezra on Lothal,
the Loth-cats watching,
yellow eyes blinking in the long grass,
the whisper of wolves in the wind.

A world that never let go,
a fight that never ended.
Rebels weren’t heroes—
they were just kids who refused to break.

Kamino—
rain like static on a dead channel,
darts in the board,
bullseyes and ghosts.

Obi-Wan on that other desert planet,
the one with all the bugs,
Geonosis hums, hives rattling,
the swarm stirs before the war.

The clones don’t know yet,
the Jedi don’t know yet,
but the pieces are in place,
and the board
is already tipping.

The point is—
Padmé and Anakin.
Not the tragedy we tell ourselves,
but the one that was always there.

Vader peeking through
in every argument,
every clenched fist,
every flicker of yellow in his eyes.

Come on, man—
really?
Through all of that?

Through every season,
every animated series,
every softened frame,
every moment we wanted to believe
he wasn’t already gone?

The galaxy never had a chance.

Air bombardment,
game over.

The clones,
they have a soul.

Heroes don’t die—
you stay, I go.
Superman.

The Iron Giant,
falling in silence,
choosing it,
knowing it.

Let’s all use the Force.
Salute to Luke.

The twin suns never set.

Bury those laser swords.
Right there, at the spot
where Luke stood on the edge,
watching the fire,
his aunt and uncle,
burned to dust,
his old life smoldering.

Dumbstruck.
Look out, Empire.
Vampire Americana.