The Ice Beneath

Dawn tipped ice and snow bunches up
Drifts over and across, freezing in place
Like the way dust finds the sexy curves
Of history eventually finding settlement

Beginning to Fly

The sky is cold winter
Wyoming wind wailing
Nestled in the purple
Choking vacuum of forever

Ready to Burst

Inflation rising
Debt market ballooning
Misinformation proliferating
Covid at a fever pitch.

Song O’ The Willamette

Seek ye sounds and hear the collective bugle calls!
O’ osprey n’ lumbering locomotive bawls
Hear its honking trombone plunger muted feature
Garbled warble like the voice of Charlie Brown’s teacher

Galileo

Like all the famous
astronauts and astronomers
who spent days
peering at the heavens
I’ve stared too long at the stars
orbiting inside your baby blues
to no longer deny that God exists

The Drought of ’22

The body of missing teen found plastered over headlines
Barely mentioned, the lake and its 500 year low waterline

A society that buries itself in fantasy buying virtual land
Will eventually realize that our bodies cannot drink sand

Prosopagnosia

Night and day’s tied faces to the plainly hidden
Double helical wrapped Christmas morning gifts
Opened up like halos when street lamps kick in

My Town

I’m an erect middle finger to the puppeteer
In valleys full of folks sick of California
Doing their damnedest to make California here

Born Shy

I live on the wrong glassy frosted frame side
Of a Norman Rockwell doctor visit painting
And the museum security staff roping it off

Nostalgia Is Like Herpes

Nostalgia is like herpes
The more we get screwed
The bigger the chance
We’ll find a reminder of it later
If I can just get through this….

My Hands…

Grasped thumbs
Cupped breasts
Rattled shakes
Played with dolls
Bounced balls
Jumped rope
Reached for love
Clung to sun

Armistice

Work is just a nervous glance, and a .357 under the desk
And the wafting smoke snaking out from bosses’ mouths
Memorialize this armistice between slave and charioteer
Between the elite few riding and the multitudes run down

Good News

She fell upon my hardcover
book on the lives of caterpillars
from a wispy cedar tree burl
I scared away an excited robin
and some boys with fishing poles
I watched her crawl back and forth
doing a 50 leg two step on my arm

No. 13

They are onto us so let’s hide away
Inside hidden fox-holed motel floors
Intentionally mislabeled as room 14’s
We can take respite inside conch shells
And spiraling sunflower inflorescence

Election Day

Every four years there’s this sporting event
Preceded by campaign promises and vows of roses
We choose our bread, circuses and the president
We mark our ballots while holding our noses

The Insane

I saw Jesus singing today
His salvation shivering
In the cold and the chill
His tent propped across
A rusty, red shopping cart
I feel his fixed, coiled eyes
Like a hypnotizing cobra
Daring me to look his way