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Paul Watsky

If You Want to Live


forever, seems you’ll require

a generous selected handful


of little polished stones. My wife,

who’s stuck in town this weekend,


asked me—more, I imagine, to pro-

ject positivity than from conviction— 


to stop by the spiritual store for the sake 

of someone doing badly, a chore 


I didn’t begrudge, being per-

sonally fond of rocks, and the price


no worse than an elaborate bouquet.

Each pebble cost enough to rate


individual wrapping, along with 

an attractive, closely printed, 


instructive card on what to expect

performancewise, e.g. clear quartz,


the master healer (only innocent

magic here, not the one to rule


them all); black kyanite—

a porcelain-toughener for spark


plugs—to repair holes in the aura:

chrysocolla serving up stress relief;


chrysotile, a.k.a. white asbestos,

one world’s established car-

cinogen, but in our parallel universe,

allegedly a motivator; fire


agate, sending harm back

to its source—let’s all watch


the semiprecious zap meta-

stases. Meanwhile I sit alone


out at the dormant fire pit,

surrounded by unsanctified gravel,


from which in spring emerged

the native poppy plants, now,


after completing their cycle, dried 

up and disappeared. Windless, 


lovely, a late afternoon to make

eternal life look pretty good.

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