Life is a bipolar illness of the mind, I think.
The pendulum swings, emotions
to-ing and fro-ing on my heart dangling
from free-floating clouds,
stormy weather riding the heart-line,
the life-line shifts
from every direction,
but my director takes no hostages, pins no
awards for lifetime achievements or indiscretionary
wardrobe malfunctions
(it's all about the wardrobe and the make-up, eh?)

sooner rather than later
the cameraman yells "Cut!"
and most of the take is unedited
and comes with no solutions
but the science and the art that is a still-life
of the prodigal's daughter
takes one last bow,
the sky is an upside-down ocean which I swim,
crossing no finish line,
falling to the earth below.

I land with both feet on the ground, ashes already
swirling in space, little incendiary thoughts lighting
poems like red sails glowing in a reflection
without leaf or grass-blades of memory.

Say goodnight, Gracie. I dunt thin' so Lucee.

Not yet. Not yet. We'll meet again.