**Fall reminds me of fairs, vintage carnival rides still creaking in their metal and chains, of creepy tents and small- town attractions. And of fortune-tellers who frequent these fairs with their incense sticks and tarot cards, adorned in crystal balls and their big hats. That's what this poem is about.
They say our most fertile dreams
Are let free of their captivity
When a calm hand unburdens the blank rune,
But I can’t help wondering
What black candle my enemies
Have burned against me
In their devilish pursuits to antagonize
The restless spirits of my ancestry.
For years I’ve searched for things
I can hold onto with my fingers,
Interpreting the depths of their inner ticking,
As if my own heart were a crystal ball
I could peer into, but I only saw reflections.
On dark nights fit for only
The invisible battles of witches and warlocks,
I imagine all the candy-colored fairies
That inhabit the purple trees
Of Jupiter’s iridescent moons,
I toss the girth of my life into an open notebook
Like a lone fortune teller
Lost amidst a sea of vocabulary
And daring my heavy shoes to swim
Into the birthing void of some other world.
But it is you, my muse,
The moving statue of my sixth sense,
You walk across the dunes of my dreams
To deliver me from the bone-scatter
Of white linens and mediocrity.