life’s chances
are dances danced
in some square,

onlookers watching,
even their stare,
sees us quite
plainly,
see us
quite plain
in life’s
dancing quiet --

altogether
insane.

Gripped in ancient curve of world,
hazed blue to black on turns of planet speeding slow
across bright vision of new civilization,
the gleam of shining cities spread myriad
along brief crusted scabs of continent
means nothing to the emptiness of eons
light itself can never conquer
through instances of stellar distance…

…no culture proud will cross a million years
of centuries grown geologic in glacial duration…

She's not important anymore:
Things didn't go the way that she foresaw-
See her lying on the floor
Can't hurt her more...

Words can't tell you how she feels:
She caught the wrong end of your deals-
You only need her for your thrills
And feels...

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I like to bluster flapping clothes
To feel the silk of milky snows
It tickles when I twist the leaves
And rasp around the old oak trees.

I like to touch electric wires
Or fan the flames of red hot fires
To giddy up the static tracks
Of atmospheric lightning cracks.

I like to knock the blocking doors
Or lick the dust on dirty floors
To stir the carbon factory smoke
And whisk away the toxic choke.

I met her once,
in a battered place
where Irish bombs blew
holes into an English city,
broken bodies writhing
as I looked down at the splinters
of a shattered friend
stuck deep into my shins.