
Oblivion

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.