lets hear it for the sun

summer slum sitting
winter's dust rising. I've already been hot
with no swim spot in sight.

we burned through spring in a week and
birds think it must be time for warm skies

crystal green frogs

stumped and bound to a big iron barge
sitting in the cove, under a log,
lost pieces of home the wind has wrecked some
water plants, stalks smashed flat over mud

crystal stutters

like a low frequency alias
such that elian gonzalez
turns up as alien gonzo

blue nose stone ground corn eating
chapters of novels in a overgrown lounge

soft potato chip ribosomes falsly starting
a fire at the edge of a ceder planked home

foals and little sheep (lambs) cope with a big bad jar
of nettles they cant hope to open

yesterday

yesterday
yesterday
the white hot sun cleaned
the hardly white old snow
off of the white trash neighbor's
roof exposing the plenary of decaying
waste land, buckets, ladders, drawers and cans.

we always wonder if its to hold the rough
or maybe its some far fangled attempt at insulation
or maybe its because their nuts.

birds in trees

walking on the old bone marrow
snow and listening to the bird
sing a out how wrong it was for spring
to put a couple of fingers out of the ground and wiggle
them like worms. the spring flipped the bird the bird.

baby its cold inside

the fast sun sits
boiling snow to bits
while snot slithers out of my cold red nose
to freeze solid till tomorrow

salsa and rice

minus the salsa a truly
proletarian delight
but if the rice is bottom's burnt
I guess its alright. onions
are russia's excuse for crying or pausing to mind
the nettles that reach chest high
with chernobyle long needles

its been a sunrise

the brick sinks below a shadow of doubt
a mere stop off the pigion express.

the height of civilization when everything
was over and done with downy feathers
shivering to stay warm in the probably last
cold week of these seasons.

if the sun pushes further
the tap will be a gusher and the flowers will bluster
and feathers will flutter

in just a minute tha pan
will be hot and thin wiffs
of steam will shoot like turnip blooms
filling up a cauldron of empty stomachs

out there the cold sands of time keep filling a valse
with notes
and tinkly tinkly little sarcoma
lymphoma them up on the tellephona
its a changing world and the written burden
of that on a lid is lifted and the moths can remain or leave
as they refuse or pee

lundi

today the sheets are folded dry
and the socks are hanging wet cooling
the room with a fragrant, yet crude, tune
ungolden thyme and lilac shaped potato faces
their noses and is dotted