The Conjurer

CHANGING HORSES

He knows

He knows the beauty of lyrical pain
Impulse rejoices for his acceptance
Easy access to rib-cage vaults
Unwind the tensions of this
Maniacal doom

He tastes

Tastes the emptiness that comedians
See at the bottom of their glass
The residue of transient bravado
is made still by his whisper

He perceives

Perception of death
Enlightens his ovation
His tonation takes hold of
Surface designs and
Guides their risk to his iris
Rigid lines in shadow curve into
Stone bodies that kneed (need)
Precise lotion administered

He returns

Returning to the constellation
He gently kills our
Lame horses
They die with open generosity
They die and he rides toward
Red horizons never using a whip
They volunteer for subjective infinity

He will guide them through
Granite domes into yellow and
White meadows
He will guide them because
He knows

---Jonathan Mittleman
01/25/1988 Los Angeles
Written for Thomas Michael Angelo