I always give that
fickle ***** Life one more chance,
for I love her so.

onus of science, or dream, to all explain;
the inexplicable remains dismissed:
being here or there: exactly arranged
and no one yearns to know of nothingness
between the emptiness of meanings each
with labeled names, boxes tightly-packed--
towers darkly lined, well beyond the reach
of but a few, lost, scattered minds...
xe shouted through hir lungs a greener hue
that we could live beyond the concrete grey
die in love despite our evil ignorance,
our rainbow cutouts crying for the sun
  --posthumous teleologies begun
  in kinder dreamers, earthly songs enhanced.

I saw my future at the Dollar Town
today.  She shuffled, bent, a Sisyphus
who rolled her cart uphill on level ground,
resisting rollback grinding her to dust.
Perhaps fifteen or twenty years beyond
my age, or pushing ninety.  Hard for me
to tell; she labored so, with eyes despon-
ent, weight upon her arms, each step a plea.
I hobbled past her, grateful for a cart
nearby to hold me up.  The air-conditioned
blast a respite from the sweltered heat;
I panted softly, let my pounding heart
subside, inhaled a soothing breath, and sent
a prayer she'd make it home, get off her feet.