Planting angel eggs on a dying world,

at the feet of billboards,

in the clearcut wastelands,

by the rivers of tears from Yemeni mothers,

under highway overpasses where defective gear-turners sleep,

shambling from crater to crater on tree stump legs

wailing whale songs and praying to unprofitable gods,

planting them in the ashes whispering

"May there be kindness,

may there be seeing,

may there be artist lovers who are each other's muse."

Dancing a doomed dance,

a dance of holy futility,

the dance of madmen,

the dance of heretics,

the dance of censored saints,

of banished buddhas,

singing a song of hopeless hope,

irrational hope,

unscientific hope,

the hope of lovers and lunatics,

a lunatic's song sung to the moon.

Dance with us, gentle stranger,

through this world of Disney deforestation and unexplored abysses

with unauthorized choreography and wondermented eyes.

Let us hold the line against the empire of Earth eaters

for no other reason than that we're the only ones left

who are crazy enough to try.

There may be a hatching yet, gentle stranger.

Humanity is not broken

anymore than an egg

is a broken bird.

________________

Reading by Tim Foley.