Wizard of Industry
for Joe Wrobel
1
There is dragon fire in you
that your wizardry
reins in
and lets go.
And when you rain in,
smoke cloaks you
like your grey raincoat
and all I'm meant to see
is swift mister, e-mailing, faxing, fixing...
But I have a private eye
which detects scaffolding around works
in such progress.
I see
the green laselit alchemicaling
of that heart brain.
2
Gathering power as you would a storm
if you were God
(which you are).
Remember,
as God didn't -
until the flood had drowned the unicorn,
and one little boat was afloat -
that a fish can grant a wish,
swallow an offending party
and spit him out, changed.
Or is it just me,
standing on the shore,
watching you sail the horizon,
once more.
When he writes, he writes
with his whole arm
and his hair,
which he pulls to make more
headroom for the story.
He turns the page and to feel
the writing pushing through to the other side.
The new words sidle right up against the old,
And seen edge wise, if you have the eyes,
it's the Pushme-Pullyou, the two headed Yak
of Dr. Doolittle who did so much for us.
Words live their own lives; they pop
Out when we wouldn't, and hide
When we would be seen.
He knows how to wait for words -
woos them with signs and symbols doodled
with a double pen, on the borderline.
And they come, new as he,
the reassembled assembly of the dinosaurtea.
1
There is dragon fire in you
that your wizardry
reins in
and lets go.
And when you rain in,
smoke cloaks you
like your grey raincoat
and all I'm meant to see
is swift mister, e-mailing, faxing, fixing...
But I have a private eye
which detects scaffolding around works
in such progress.
I see
the green laselit alchemicaling
of that heart brain.
2
Gathering power as you would a storm
if you were God
(which you are).
Remember,
as God didn't -
until the flood had drowned the unicorn,
and one little boat was afloat -
that a fish can grant a wish,
swallow an offending party
and spit him out, changed.
Or is it just me,
standing on the shore,
watching you sail the horizon,
once more.
When he writes, he writes
with his whole arm
and his hair,
which he pulls to make more
headroom for the story.
He turns the page and to feel
the writing pushing through to the other side.
The new words sidle right up against the old,
And seen edge wise, if you have the eyes,
it's the Pushme-Pullyou, the two headed Yak
of Dr. Doolittle who did so much for us.
Words live their own lives; they pop
Out when we wouldn't, and hide
When we would be seen.
He knows how to wait for words -
woos them with signs and symbols doodled
with a double pen, on the borderline.
And they come, new as he,
the reassembled assembly of the dinosaurtea.