Blockbuster

In the backroom of a Blockbuster

VCR whirring in time

to a blockbuster favorite,

we bided our time

as dad worked his shift

ended unending lines

of people finding their bliss

for a buck ninety-nine.

Meanwhile I grinned over dumb shit:

sticking staples in fingertips

callused from guitar strings

and chanting spells breaking time

chanting spells breaking gravity

once finally outside

could movies be reality?

Or are they illusions, lies

Like a staple in my fingertip

hitting neither blood nor nerve ending

an illusion of long-suffering

in reality numbing?

Could I pretend to be magic

jump off stairwells, Mary Poppins

with umbrella, cinematic

and fly, fantastic?

It’d probably be tragic;

that’s why epic is epic;

at any number of seconds

the epic could end.

We drive home instead

of floating amongst the clouds

performing tricks made to look real;

we’ll leave it to the reel.