A kind of lazy angel
swooped by one day
when I was skydancing carefully
on the corrugated roof of cirrocumulus,
minding my own business
and that of the world's,
supervising the sun
and the rinsed-clean fresh air
up there where blue was invented.

The angel showed me how to boogie-dance,
then flashed past and was gone,
leaving only laughter behind
and my admiration
for his easy grace.
You know, loose, with flow.

I was surprised at how easy it really was
to smoke on down in a delta
and dock with triple diamonds
by way of stair steps and a star
to flare it into snowflakes
and a teardrop.
Yeah.  What that angel showed me
was a head trip I'd always known.
But I simply hadn't been there,
on my own.

Ordinary people, bound by ground,
haven’t caught my act in the atmosphere.
But I don't really care -
I've been there, come back, seen around.

I ride the rainbow and roll the dice
on the great big stage of the stars
where the edge of eternity is the place I fly
as the point man on the wedge.
I skydance there quite often now,
for the love of it.  
For spice.