Turtles move for carrots,
frogs tuck their eyes in the their mouths,
gas prices will never be what they were-
but neither will I.
We tried crow yoga
but the bastard birds just waited
until we were in crow pose
then they pecked us in the ass
and stole our keys.
I tried to carry tasks like a came
but I got lumpy in all the wrong places.
Now I look to unburden myself
of pride and approval and control
and see if I can still cross the desert.
We are legends on our own sofas.
We can tuck our chins into other chins.
We move for rum and pie and watch
as clouds race by.
The spell was real,
though it was made of whispers and moss.
They never knew
if it was fate or some other construct
that drew them
together like tracks of a centipede
but they fell
in line with all things love and raucous
until they were exhausted
and too wise to remember being alone.
I was floating
in the hall between stone arches
with the desert nearby.
I couldn’t tell anyone
how full of verdant growth I was
because moss was muzzling me
and I couldn’t find my way
because the canopy shielded me
from harsh direction of the sun.
People were fighting and loving
in the doorway but I floated, timelessly;
my own sea was grace
in an ocean of torment.
Walking encumbered with heavy blues
seems less shitty when viewed from above
-like from an artist’s loft
with his medley of yellows and greens
It probably looks like a blooming flower
or unfurling fern or maybe
a Busby Berkeley number on a busy day
But here at the level of purgatory
there’s a sponsor for every malady,
pockets of alone in every crowd,
bird jazz on the windshield,
and a crazy notion of love healing all.
Sunset is a red fuming cry of frustration;
the bloom is what’s left on the palette.