so much for dust

sneezeing blinds seeing the keys
to the door to get some air
thats just as filled with white fluff ,
down filling floating into lungs and
every cave and canyon

winter flaw

its a silly sub zero morning
but why bother? just get on with it.
set us up with lemonade and icecream shades

filter the sunlight with hat brims and tan limbs
forget this cold. its passe . when will we get the perpetual summer.
two thousand miles off the coast of jamaica

qi gong

gone sometime
llevened bread seven thirty in the morning
its like to be in the sand with no shoes
and the progress you are making
is something a camel or specialized beast
can make in less time than it takes to bake a tasty cake

return to zero

do not clip
clop lepidoptera's competitor, the bee
venerable be the singes on sponges left under magnifying
lenses sending electromagnetic spectrums and pie plate shifts
scattering brighter than I expected

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