| I am spellbound as Aladdin rubs his lamp. A magnesium flash, an explosion of my breath, and he is gone behind a swirl of smoke. Slowly it dawns on us that something has gone wrong. The Genie bursts from the wings and kneels over Aladdin who twists in agony on the floor. His hands clutch his eyes. `I can't see! I can't see!' Along the Main Street, past the courthouse, the barber's window slick with haircuts from the Fifties, comes the tapping of his stick. Black glasses hide the pantomime of terror in his eyes. No, it can't be done. Experiment deemed a failure. Maybe it's possible for Joe Soap, but certainly not for a poet. A poet's head, a true poet's head, is different. It is a foundry, an armoury working non-stop day and night. In the white heat of suffering, words are sharpened into spears. A poet's head is the forge of confrontation. Poor Timmy. Thirty years rubbing that lamp behind his eyes. The things that come into your head. Main Street. A white-haired woman fumbles in her handbag. Scented gloves, tickets for 'Aladdin' in the Worsted Mills, a prayerbook full of memory cards. Ro-ock, rock a hula baby. What am I at lying here in the cold? Get up, get up. What's that? Shit. The bottle's in bits. Let that be a lesson for you. Lesson No. 1: Never trust the pockets of a sports coat. Mind the glass. Too late... Look, we're blood brothers, him and me. What am I saying? I'm not like that bastard. Look, I am Padre Pio, the patron saint of poets!
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