Graham Isaac

Neo takes the blue pill

Through the stark brightness of forever, fate stares without sunglasses.
Nearsighted, confusing like shapes and sizes, colors blurred and watery,
blunted by sight outside of time, fate thinks you’re it. The silver bullet.
The stungun. The magic marker.
Fate picked you as the One when it saw you
selflessly performing the little miracles
bystanders overlook, that it would take omniscience to
notice, the way you always pay your rent on time,
frequently watch your nephew and have never once
exposed him to sharp knives
or pornographic materials
little inspirations that, under the harsh glare of infinity
make your shrug look like a flex, your fantasy novel
an instruction manual, the drone of the t.v. an anthem.
Fate is winds its’ arm to toss you the ball, it picked
you when it saw you getting up at 6:58 am- two! whole!
minutes! Before your alarm so you could make it behind
the comic store counter with a donut this time-
where you work for a dollar less than minimum
because they make up for it in store credit.
It’s the little miracles that have the universe tricked, the subtleties
that blind fate to the obvious, so, with less than twenty twenty vision,
it saw this as quiet heroism
not your trademark apathy, neither embracing nor
giving in to routine
because the latter implies struggle
and the former, a movement of your arms
and when the Necessary Lessons and Preparations cross
your path you won’t believe this shit, you will shake your
head and e-mail your ex-girlfriend, because she still likes
your crazy stories
and when the Great Struggle you were Bestowed by
Fate comes, you’ll sit behind the smudged glass counter, lift your
eyes from your book and say
“were you looking for something. . . specific?”
Somewhere, a confused fire fighter is losing at scratch tickets, once again.

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