three-fer one

is it fate
or suction
is it love
or adhesives
that brought me
to your feet
in need of nothing
yet seeking a savior

a polished bumpkin
an educated fool
I was so very fortunate
to lose everything
to you

***
fake birds
on fake boughs
fake leaves
and fake flowers

***
little grey-brown feather
lost to the wind
powerless from within
knows what it is

beyond me

the rote
the post-rote
the trans-
rote
the smile
in the breath
the no-Zen
the freedom
of the fallen
un-chosen

reliquary

breathe in
revel in your essential Self
breathe out
exit your body

this cycle
uninterrupted for eons
carries us
conscious of our hearts
and those of our loved ones
bumpa--wump
beat little bird
of our ancestors, of our enemies

leaves out nothing
involves us all

an elegant unfolding
a flower
with infinite petals
in creation's
incomplete transformation

a newborn child
knew this once
moved on in a time of war
left us his essence
in a pot
full of ashes

watermelon rind

a chunk of watermelon rind
face down on the pavement
must've been a massacre
or a picnic
placed such an odd object
on the street, in the open
where bicyclists and pedestrians
could look down and gawk
aghast, or unconcerned
murder of a portly fruit
someone took out a hit
on hot summer commodity

star to star (kind of for the solar eclipse)

take the early afternoon
to forget yourself
to live in the proposition
that all things are sprouting ideas
connecting star to star
through a back door
a seasoned darkness
that subsumes the corridors
links all created things
like a mother's love
fastens a family
to the dinner table

this is you

wire-brushing your air conditioner filter
into the bath-tub
wearing jean shorts and an old DEVO album shirt
(bulging prominently at the gut)
singing Jewel's panned millenial album
in such terrible falsetto
middle-aged white male fat belly cool

no Tom Cruise Risky Business
sexy mess teen swoon slick sick alien science
singing Bob Seger in his shorts
on the blockbuster screen

this is you
this is passion
this is real
this is life, man
halfway to the grave
and Friday night dreaming
laundry in the washer
burning the midnight candle
and a weekend full of recovery meetings
ahead

the same story

the same story
like a coffee habit
cup after cup
day after day
the tale turns on its axis
returns to its origins
once again, once again
becomes something bigger
stranger, with a less satisfying
but more honest conclusion

in another story
from another time
future or past
we look back

the technology
of love
we can't make
any less simple

what are we

who are we?
insects?
gods?
yes, and more than these
oceans
thimbles
what our eyes see
what our hearts hold