There is not much magic here,
in this place where I sit,
where I stand,
where I eat, sleep, and live.
This place is too bright,
and magic lives in the shadows, not in light.
But here, even shadows hide,
afraid of the glimmering streetlamps and grinning sun.
In the end the darkness can have no place here,
in this kingdom of the dead,
this land of living mannequins where
the best that we can hope for is a beemer or a jag,
and a closet full of too expensive clothes.
This is the place where we hover between what we want
and what we need, and neither is apparently plentiful or abundant.

There are people here that live and see,
that live and die,
that seem to know the difference between their waking and their dreaming.
But they are few and I'm between
and I'm afraid I will not find my way.

So here's another poem,
too long by far
and just a little whiny,
to exfoliate the demons and extrapolate my thoughts.
Now I'll give it all a name and call it art.

AcB 11.25.99