Sorceropolis

In a storefront theater, California beachtown, there’s magic.
A wizard talks like an old school New York City cabbie
who's seen everything, Broadway stars tumbling from taverns,
hedge fund managers cheating a fare, beauty turned old,
and youth grown cold. He'd seen the mountains rise,
the seas take form, and every war that was never won.
No big government contracts for magicians, no sir!
First, he works the counter, selling cards that go blank
or let the kings float right out. Disappearing ball trick, small
enough to fit on a key ring. Impossible cups and balls, there,
before your very eyes, all available now for a couple bucks.
Bottle of water? Right there in the fridge. Coke? Sure thing.
The theater opened, and we left him, only to find him again,
on stage, in a white silk jacket, low black Van's skater shoes,
his mouth clicking away like a ticker tape. You didn't know
if you heard it right...leg shackles to be found in any bedroom?
An oil & gas investment banker volunteer from the audience
accused of squashing solar and wind energy efforts?
A bouncy French girl, who spoke no English, called a Parisite?
But he sure did levitate Princess Alyssa, and later vanished
her from under a sheet until she reappeared at the back!
And named every single card chosen by the 5 women,
even though he never once touched the deck. Finally,
the evil that had to come showed up in a big machine
that held a canopy of long spikes guaranteed to kill
if he got tangled up, or failed to unlock the metal cuffs.
Bam! No, wait, he's standing! Alive yet! Cheating death.
We exit. He and Princess Alyssa wait to say goodbye.
"Thanks for coming." He wants our money to come back.
And that’s fair. We took too much and gave too little
to a man who lit himself on fire at a young age
then let us glimpse him consumed, mere minutes
before the flames die, and all is given to smoke.