The greatest illusions end in a way
where the world is changed after the payoff.
They take reality and and fold it into a Möbius strip,
so when you come back to to the present,
the trip turned your gloves inside out.
Or maybe some other insignificant
chirality occurs and you’re left
not knowing one side from the next.
I remember when I was a magician.
They called me a poet;
I like to say I was more of a wizard.
This was way back at the beginning of the genome project,
when artists could sculpt a person’s face in the womb
(not to mention his personality, her talents and
it’s inevitable cause of death),
like a novel living out it’s chapters in realtime.
How magnificent it was to create a life complete
from the code of DNA
and some spare nucleotides.
It’s a dead art now,
commodified and compiled by computers,
but in my day, only artisans could deconstruct
the peptide chains necessary for life.
I would write swaths of genome
like I’m painting the Sistine chapel with four letters.
With the power of luscious base pairs,
I’d turn the As, Ts, Gs, Cs into something beautiful.
Some say four is far too few
to create a proper blueprint,
but there were only four ninja turtles,
and they did the trick to kick some splinter butt,
fighting against a law that states you can only
bake potatoes in the microwave.
Sadly, these exquisite specimens of humanity
became too elite for their own good.
They created machines to do their work for them,
machines who only knew how to make
babies efficiently, not how to make them art.
Playing scrabble where the points don’t matter,
we’re now on a crash course with Mother Nature
but don’t know who will pull away from the game of chicken first.