See him cling
 To the Devil's tail,
 Whipped through
 Putrid, caustic air,
 To save himself
 From exile
 To the vast,
 Empty continent
 Of Irrelevance.

I expect a measure of madness in the world, having lived awhile. And I expect the madness to have at times the upper hand. But I really could have done without a paroxysm so close to home, so near the twilight of my life.

Beyond my door, a maple,  
 Its leaves shimmering  
 In the autumn breeze,  
 Flashing red.

A whirlwind
Teaches practical lessons
For the architects
Who stand in the rubble.

There are things
 I wish astonished me.
 Things that would have, once.
 But here I am —
 Here we are —
 Our waking world
 A cornucopia
 Of the bizarre
 Grown common as
 Complacency,
 And a forecast
 For more of the same.

Evil sometimes seems to levitate
Beyond the grasp of Themis.
But nothing supernatural's happening.
We just don't see the strings.

On the night he won,
We saw a raucous of Fords
Roll through the Dixie hills,
Stars and bars aloft on some,
Hoops and hollers of cracker joy
Cackling from the cabs.

A poet alone
 Is an electron
 Spinning above
 A mystery.