Belief is an overturned cart

I made a mistake,
parting my feathers too far:
he’s not a believer; he’d rather mope,
traversing abandoned passenger jets
scooping discarded bags of nuts
sipping spilled soda
instead of watching the skies.
My forecast is an ignored song blown out
the back end of a jet that will never fly.


There were no names

Before every moon had a nickname,
there was an innocent chaos
that smelled of bananas and vanilla.
The trees danced
without worry of proper language.
Skies held mystery,
running was a joy,
potatoes were valued more than gems.
I was younger than I’ll ever be.

Such a silly thing, walking as if
I don’t want to skip.
My chest keeps expanding
and collapsing in empty retreat.

The air in my bubble is warm and solitary.
I won’t try to sell it anymore.


The Greyhound at 70

It’s gotten so stretched,
I’m not sure
I’m a credible witness
of my own life…

When asked,
I may tell tales
of the baker
driving a unicorn
on a Greyhound bus,
and oh how the hills
rolled at 70mph!


Movable (Feast)

Eating green beans
in an orange room
to a zither’s twang.

A climbing melody
with plenty of butter
before the cock crows.

Racing clapboard
beside yourself
with nothing to prove.