Where Did All the Amulets Go?

A THOUSAND SPARROWS HIT THE GROUND THE MOMENT I WAS BORN.

I negotiated my birth into this life,
saved like Mordecai by Esther's soft eyes.

And as a boy my toys would not fit their function.

When no mysteries matured I made my own, hiding the golden embroidered thick velvet bag
where no one would find it except for me, and a few hours later I'd uncover the treasure,
acting surprised, confused or sedate.

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Hypocrisy rang like bells from Avalon's water bed.

I drank the poison but still survived.
Pigeons woke me, sounding like doves.

But now I've grown up.

The occupation of Estonia has replaced Patagonia.
My made up secrets are nullified to accommodate your highway.

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Petrochemical plants and chain link fences have erupted where I thought my culture would grow
and nearby the last known Camacho can be found writing his unsung history in a three-ring-binder.

The Shramana cannot find his Prajna or his shoes as the crows descent on the last French fry.

Meanwhile, the neopagan picks up her wolf skin cloak from the dry cleaners on 39th Street.

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On television it is only the most sexually vindictive of us that are praised and emulated;
Fawned over like some burning statue of Jupiter impaling a seahorse with a chopstick,
and given enough lire to manufacture a million of their own Grammys or Emmys.
Still they get a ceremony. Best Supporting Actress. Best Acting Supporter.

Best Romantic Comedy of the Century.

These are the extent of our odysseys.