an alacritous star rips into view
sneering at me and the rest of
verveless earth

God, Yes! 
Give me some magic. 

magic makes little cats of emptiness 
magic makes the cats into gangsters 
makes pubic hair the titillation presentation 

of a whistling teapot 

makes doing a headstand seem a reasonable way 

to get you back 

again 

the star which I have blessed with 
sainthood, which I need more than food,
farting celestial dust, 
comes to a hissing grave 
in the forever sea

and the sky is quiet on the subject of what else
there is

without the story I told myself about the star 
about who I am
about magic 

and if there be
nothing else,
let’s sit and admire
nothing
seems alright to do