The Hack

I walk in and Brad offers to show me another card trick; I humor him. He’s a tall, middle-aged man whose spent much of his life dedicated to one thing. Most of the time he’s morose creature, but there are more amusing instances where he turns into an animal recently released from his cage. He tries to suppress himself, modulating each word to the same volume. He hates “modern magic” which he insists isn’t really magical at all, but dangerous and nonsensical tomfoolery. But his anger isn’t most concentrated on the likes of Criss Angel, but puppet comedians. He sits his faded, black top hat onto his balding head and begins to perform.

[Unemployed magician Brad the Brilliant on the talentless prick Jeff Dunham]

The stage is his and the audience
has already collapsed into
his cum-encrusted fingers.
His hand dances in the ass
of a Southern cartoon, making the Yanks piss
with enjoyment. I like Nascar!
Oh you, oh you! But I don’t blame
the dolts in his grasp, I’m not swollen
with contempt–it’s fun
to laugh at the dirty, dumb
beer bellied cousin-fucker,
or the ancient crank who never used
a cell phone, or the Mexican.
I don’t even blame the jackass onstage,
the empty hack, rich, and poor
because of it. He will be swallowed
in dust and nothing will remain there.
He’s in his gold mansion, spending
fifteen minutes on hackneyed jokes
and the voice that will justify them.

He will be gone.
And so will you,
but great monuments
are released from the torrent
of dust and the leveling of time–
I’m not fueled with disdain, I’m not
fueled with envy. I cannot be. I have to be
focused, my hands continuously carve, unbroken
from their duties. The dummies can keep
their hacks, their fading con men, their smug asswipes, I will be forever,
if I play my cards right.

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