Lightening flickers between us.
The sky gasps and opens,
then the floods come
lapping upwards.
Do you remember
the torrent, my love,
when we surrendered to the wet?

That ****** of seed
was lust for life.
But then the world whirled
so quickly and
the dry came back.
The earth cracked between us
when we parted,
and the wet withered away.

So, while the sun still burns,
I stand this poem, *****,
against the sifting sands,
an obelisk for the wind to lick,
that I may remember later
the sustenance and succulence
of our season.

My heart and tongue quiver
when I talk again of
the wet.

A kind of lazy angel
swooped by one day
when I was skydancing carefully
on the corrugated roof of cirrocumulus,
minding my own business
and that of the world's,
supervising the sun
and the rinsed-clean fresh air
up there where blue was invented.

The angel showed me how to boogie-dance,
then flashed past and was gone,
leaving only laughter behind
and my admiration
for his easy grace.
You know, loose, with flow.

I was surprised at how easy it really was
to smoke on down in a delta
and dock with triple diamonds
by way of stair steps and a star
to flare it into snowflakes
and a teardrop.
Yeah.  What that angel showed me
was a head trip I'd always known.
But I simply hadn't been there,
on my own.

Ordinary people, bound by ground,
haven’t caught my act in the atmosphere.
But I don't really care -
I've been there, come back, seen around.

I ride the rainbow and roll the dice
on the great big stage of the stars
where the edge of eternity is the place I fly
as the point man on the wedge.
I skydance there quite often now,
for the love of it.  
For spice.