Payback

If I could fly,

even once,

after searching the heavens,

I would drift,

alone—

in that layer between

God and everyone else—

to where naked, cyanic skies

give in to pearly slate,

up as high as it takes,

grinning—

coming all but undone by

close to convulsive fits of mania,

held in check by nothing,

freed to involuntary bursts of

tongueless sounds that steal less

of my breath than speaking,

shivering up through me,

giggling but not quite

laughing—

hysterical for not the euphoric sensation of flight,

but in forecast of this sinister thing

that comes next.

And then—

for us all—

I would piss

on the tops

of rain clouds.