Tonight, we're bringing back sky-diving,
horizontal. Exhaust plumes call me home,
while the landscape lips whisper freely
'round parts best left empty or unexplored.
It starts, with one leg over leather steed,
then jack rabbit advancement o're plains. We
two diametric poles opposed: I - one,
the other, a whip of flame in the dark.
Splitting the ground, pulling even the earth
farther, to the nearest edge of twilight;
Mad Men: we exist to drive away night.
Guns burst, smelling of passing fumes, bullet
forms smelted then dislodged from hot chambers.
It's me, screaming as I fly along them,
the back streets. Loggers trails; forgotten land.
Viewing the roots that seek to end my blaze,
dodged with crisp laughter; I know so much better!
Even managed to steady hushed God-calls
in the whir of machinery; a blur
passing, matching the heartspeed and spittle.
This is ours, bird country; a forge that's longed
to create sparks that hiss or fly freely.
We, happy to abblige simple requests.
Peripheral: gone. Forward; meaningless.
It is here, amongst the adrenaline
that we may be allowed to forget all:
simple rose petals catching in the twigs.
Mud-stuck, holding up the fishbowl bottom
of a twisted sky carved of stars, blue shade:
better than crosses drawn upon both wrists.
And I, God I need to see the moon, sun
plucked from the eastern-most sky where they feed.
Drive now, if only to use the windburn
to dry my eyes.
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