useless art

do amazing things -
swing between buildings
like a spare tire hung
on a lazy spring breeze;
stop bullets with the flat
of a sturdy open hand;
dismiss Cadillacs and train cars
with effortless ease;
catch planets and stars;
outrun sound, light,
history; death.

But with great power
comes the need for secrecy
and impeccable disguises –
a learned limp,
a practiced stutter,
an aloof savoir faire
draped in Armani
and Maker’s Mark,
or a pair of cracked
glasses and a fridge
filled with hot dogs
and month-old milk –

plus garish lies the length
of wooden noses,
tall tales worthy
of only the worst
politics and loudest
celebrity. All this, to feel
safe and secure away
from these fantastic
struggles, to deny
these unearthly talents,

to look up at the sky
and pretend the mannered,
mundane persona
isn’t the real mask.