Magic—magick, if you insist—relies on sympathies,
the idea that the more alike two things are
the more they can affect one another.
Take, for example, my work desk, which is covered
in salt (for reasons we need not delve into)
thus entwining it with, say, Carthage (or perhaps
the burger and fries I’ll likely eat for lunch
on Friday—viscera mea delenda sunt).
If nothing now will grow on my desk,
what does that mean for my career
(such as it is)? If I leave my job
(for a more lucrative career as a poet?)
should I sack my desk to keep it out
of the hands of the Byzantines?
Will my desk be declared an UNESCO
World Heritage Site? Alas, probably not,
because it turns out Carthage was never salted
(another poem ruined by facts and logic).
Probably for the best, I’m fairly the certain
the whole child sacrifice thing (debated, but still)
would have violated several workplace policies.
Perhaps instead I’ll write “Free” all over it
and see if I end up not having to pay for lunch.
Certain of Eventual Failure 