For this magic trick I’ll do away with rhymes, the bread and butter of my being, building blocks in my brain. They cost me effect but give me cause to pick up this world like a piece of paper and fold it like a crane.
Oh, God, see?
I don’t even
think about it.
Phonics play like xylophones and syllables like sheet music. A one-man orchestra carries out his diaspora to some vague promised land where everything fits and the only music I need would be carried on the wind.
The black tie audience must think I belong to asylums, but my violins argue I’m as harmless as their vices.
But then my addiction to matching sounds makes its daily rounds, rears its head, and the resolve with which I wrote this poem is drunk, looking in my glass, trying to keep my sickness down.
This is relapse at its finest, and I’m happier for it, having found my Eden in ethanol and exacerbated mind rhymes.