This is the cross-
The poet cannot look away.

Morphine the moment,
Numb it down,
Or join the glitterdust parade,
Hum catchy melodies
From life's radio cabaret.

The haze of alcohol
Is doomed to coalesce
Into some sweet and
Somehow recognized
Intensely meaningful shape.

And you grow tired of
All this observation.

The dance of atoms
Pinballing through time
And space is just the
Backdrop for another
Killer segue line.

A clever kiss!

Sometimes we weave
Bright chaos
Born of madness,
Or track with mathematical
Precision every step
Through a geography
Of surgical incision.

And you grow bored of
All this observation.

I am slave to a need
That is no greater or lesser
Than any other.
It is merely
Packaged with cunning
And alluring anecdote.
An evolution of outsanity
(that's now a word-I said so).

A club of cool
A school of fools
And yet...
And yet...

We have this one small
Sphere of gravity pulling
From the core,
This one rare gift and curse
That paves our way;

The Poet
Cannot
Will not
Look
Away!

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