i believe in iridology, i believe in haruscipy
i search the ancient texts for the secrets beneath
your tongue–then google it instead. these days
we practioners of dead arts are more practical,
and as heretics we bomb the south street seaport
in protest of this collage of skin, mosaic of bone
that threatens to reveal us as charlatans–there
is no rabbit in that hat. you point at me and call
me witch, the birthmark on my neck proof when i
don’t bleed, but i bleed in so many other ways,
i turn to blood in your hands that you scoop to
your mouth and why do we have to kill so many
goats, they didn’t do anything us, except maybe
eat the begonias. the pagan gods will blight your
genetically modified crop for this, and you’ll
be sorry you ever planted that monoculture.
everytime you sneeze someone will curse you.
the flickering televisions inside your irises
will never tell us the truth, but the potato
chips in your gut will herald a new age.