The Wizards (a poem)

Wednesday, May 28, 2025

The wizards—
what arrogance,
the blind confidence,
the mania,

to think it even possible
and not only—
but also
practice it
like it’s paying
in pure gold.

Mad men—
who proved us otherwise.

Impossible—
how could anyone?
That’s wild.
What have they done?
Never seen before.
Assumed improbable.

Shock and awe,
clickbait in every syllable.

The dance—
the painting of pictures
with five words—
that generation expanded
by farms
puking carbon
up into poor neighborhoods.

The gladiators,
the games,
the chariots—
all to gather
and forget our troubles.

The spaces,
the sacred,
the ones outside our homes—
where 90 percent
of the economy
still lives.

Wands over knots—
and they are not.
A flick of the wrist
to conquer the static,
a light in the dark
with a wish.

This is the wizard,
counted crazy
in as much
as he is dangerous.

Some converted—
but the ones still wielding,
transcendent of fames,
frames we make every day.

New shot.
Wide angle.
So much better.
I see now.

Insulkated.
How do they do that—
and stay sober?

When things start bursting,
it all breaks fast.
The tipping point—
it was good for decades,
shining bright…

and then—
alarms blaring.
Time’s up.
And I’m singing that goodbye song,
asking for forgiveness,
feeling empty.

The kids’ faces—
haunting me.
Asking heart-breaking questions.

And a word wasn’t even uttered.
Those eyes
will scold me
forever.

Heart failure.
Broken and tired
of pumping.