I danced with machinery

in the form of crooked

man flesh and bagambo

fresh thoughts-

it was all I ever hoped

for and not nearly

long enough. We played

spoons until sunrise.

I hope for another round.

The sun is too far

to make sense of its shape

but the fallen leaves

have sharp edges,

enough to cut my skin

if I choose.

.

The danger

is not in where I go,

but how I get there.

And I am so open.

We’ve gone too far

when we find beauty in chemical afterglow.

Screwing the soil

beneath our feet should be dirtier;

are we monsters

for craving the light of an oncoming train?

There’s no disaster

sweeter than our own self-made ruin

and we revel

in abundant ill-gained knowledge.

We’ll keep trying

to lick the wheels that will run us over.

eagle flew out from behind

a brick post

dripping with ice

and it flew to the rhythm

of the big digger

in the lot next door

psssshhhh…. guuuhhhh… psssshhhh

without dipping a greeting

or passing along any comfort

– that’s not it’s damned job –

I stood as a crowd filed

past and around and I watched

as talons tucked, wings spread,

the flight going higher into cold layers

leaving me peeking behind

a brick post,

the digger operator pretending not to notice

my awkwardness

I made myself sit still

and let my brain run amuck…

thoughts circled like toilet water

over mundane things like

shoelaces and forks

and evil devices like

punctuation and bra hooks.

Images of a beating floated

and were hard to push down,

but I didn’t resist; there was no

glorious victory or surrender,

just another psychic bandaid in place.

There’s no peace in stillness

when the meditative turns tornado

and cows fly

over a speeding rainbow.

The hardest part

is sticking the landing.