In a time of grace-filled goodness
there is a need for magic.
The difference between white
and black magic in such a time
is that the white for example
could give one wings
poof one into a sparrow,
and that’s fun.
One can venture off to exciting places with wings,
a belly full of joy-worms.
Whereas black magic (not
to be confused with the black hawk, which is real
wired to dart for the neck) can zap life from a flower. Can it zap the life back in? Probably
(just as it can change from warthog to princess)
but don’t count on it. In a world of wizards’ duels, wherein
from blue mice,
one side must be rammed over the edge by the other
because the townsfolk have a dire need to bow.
Who can pull this sword from this stone?
For Lack of Sleeping
movable unman comes tacit courting
groans a mediaeval Uh
pale ember invades the eyes
between this frill rhythm and the hemisphere
the thievish week blows the skull open HUFF
which he falls into like a tenfold hole
mixing iodine to a loony’s wit
as the brain-legs stumble for everyday train
mouth parts with a tonic-dove Eh
which is swiftly picked by a sly panhandler
muffled by WOOF
A façade-sphere points on Ramble Avenue
walking under suncloud or dragged through ranting red fog
the phantom’s face wilts
feels the atomic weight of his clothes
the mind a lofty thought-pit honks
at passing philanderers
their nifty tendons
basement apes with sweetening growls
the deaf sun shushing all this puttering
he reach the descending stairs
a fishy decrescendo
sits the sorrows
the ill-fated wait
Recently, Timothy Carroll’s work has appeared in the Brooklyn Review and Penny Ante Feud, as well as throughout the New York City subway system where he curates a public space project entitled, Service Changes. He lives in St. Paul, Minnesota where he teaches high school English.