Michael Spell
A crystal ball
breaks even,
binding blind bucks,
and proposes self-fulfilling prophecies
that were never truthable
in the first place.
It’s the pine-cone-clad sasquatch
quietly,
calmly,
allegedly
in the bushes.
A piranha’s jaw,
pried open;
I know,
you wish you could peek in
and see what’s chosen.
It’s watching
your idols idle
with that far-out betweenness
and they’re waiting,
cross-eyed and painless
for you to show up
and you’ve got a private jet
but you can’t check the gas beforehand
and you can already see
God’s turbulence
all the way from campus.
It’s that
bastard eight ball
that told you
yes
like clockwork
for the past three years
that just now
73 minutes ago
nearly bursted
four eyes
worth of rods and cones
telling you
“Brace yourself!
Not for what you will see,
but for what you won’t see!”