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,
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.
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