Geminis aren’t the only ones who love Columbo, right?

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.

A spell at dusk

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.

Out of my shell

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.

One messy palette

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.