a magician pulls a handkerchief from her sleeve for an eternity
it is tragic how much fabric spools onto the floor
someone in the audience rolls his eyes returning to his laptop
writing the first sentence to his novel:
the mind is a labyrinth of neurons but what minotaur lies in it?
it is tragic how magicians are always booed off stage and replaced with pole dancers
the men didn’t know the dancer tonight is a mother of four and a lover of corn mazes
once when her children found the center of the corn maze they didn’t
so perhaps the minotaur
is nonbeing, nonexistence
perhaps I am the minotaur gathering quick grass from the garden for my father
or am I gathering beer bottles from the Great Lakes for lost innocence
or perhaps my blue newborn before nurses carry him into the unseen