The crispy bark of the river birch
slips generously
from the crooked trunk,
shag bark with its annual shed
announced by golden trumpets
slipping elongated
in spring rains
sliding downward as 
children sled down a snowy slope,
loose hanging splotches
of lichen birthed on each piece,
photosynthesizing as it
slurps up nutrients from raindrops
and air,
lie in wait for the
hummingbird to glean small pieces
for its nest, gray and green lichen
dripping secrets
along the way.

There they all stand
circling the star-spangled tree:
come-hither prom girls,
a hallelujah of glamour
outsparkling decorations,
and the fashion glitter pixies
all wild hair and super powers,
and the Google-eyed babies,
lifelike diapered wonders
who walk and talk and wet
enough to melt a dreaming heart.  

I got an Annie girl one year,
at least that’s what my mother called her.
Short brown hair and flat feet,
no fancy hair ribbons or house of dreams.
The only thing pink was her naked body,
and even that conjured no hope of a boyfriend.
My mother added handmade clothes:
off-color green dress too long in the waist,
baggy plaid pajamas, a patchwork jumpsuit.
Annie was shame, manacle, outcast.  

I realize now my mother did her best,
sewing scraps of cloth late into the night
after her shift at the factory.
Hungry, eyes bleary, fingers
needle pricked and bloody,
always worried she would never
be able to wash out the stains,
weaving in stitches of love
I had yet to learn.        

June Bloom 

There’s a body floating in the pool, 
but it’s not mine. 
The road is closed for the week,
and I don’t know why.
The sun is starting to set,
for we’re running out of time. 
I spent most the day in my head,
yet I was riding my bike. 

Skin starts to burn
and heads start to shine.
Now it feels like I’m dying 
though at first it felt fine. 
Maybe I’ll be the next one floating, 
if you refer to the first line. 

I saw your curly crop of hair
Overtop the aisle,
I ran to you
Only to be greeted by a strangers smile,

I saw your bag in the halls,
Flashing red across my vision,
But when I caught up to you
Another man was in my collision,

Your shoes, your truck, your hoodie
Everything I see,
A shadow of you,
The mirages won’t let me be.

Hubris is a pair of shiny boots stuck forever on a holy mountainside
Littered with chip bags, water bottles, and scraps of plastic.
In the boots are a pair of crepe paper feet, attached are legs in
A pair of 90s windbreaker pants, bright and orange, 
Still swish-swishing in the wind, that match the jacket whose collar
Flaps around a half-decayed head, the flesh eroded around the snow white
Teeth that grin like someone just yelled “Say cheese!” even though
That corpse never reached the peak for a celebratory photo.

Hubris is thinking you can play a god, you can be a god at the top 
Of the world, hand-held the entire way by peasantry who should
Just be grateful you were there to hand them big wads of money.

Bugs

be

fucking in your walls and fucking in the air
and fucking on your bed and fucking in your chair
and fucking in your clothes and fucking in the shadows
fucking in your garbage, fucking right beneath your nose

and before you know there’s a problem,
you’re surrounded
by eggs, eggs, eggs.

But do they not have some right to be?
Is it not a dirty home
that first invites them in?
They come thirsting for your blood
and you know
they’d drink you dry if they were big enough.

Because unfortunately,
some of them are…

the ones fucking with our laws and fucking with your rights
and fucking with our money and ignoring all your plights
and stripping ‘way your freedoms, and denying dignity
as they consume every power with reckless impunity.

You think no one could vote for this, but you’ll be surprised
when they mobilize the tired and the disenfranchised,
people who might have only one contentious view
doubling down when crossing swords with your own hateful few.

Then an impossible November unfolds:
you’re outnumbered
seventy-five million to seventy.

But how did they get so strong?
A lot of them are good people
grown weary of broadstroke insults.
If we could find a way
to meet needs in the middle
the real infestation could then be exposed.

It won’t be by pointing fingers.
Nothing’s gained by being a dick,
but for the sake of this nation
that still has so much to offer,
someone’s got to take the lead
and start cleaning this goddamn house.

textbooks called them “Lost”
border after border crossed
before being labeled “Expatriates”  

the search for Art, Music, Words,
even just a decent damned conversation
at a café in the Monmartre­—  

over hill over dale hitting the dusty trail
for something to believe in
after the war to end all wars that  

let loose the dogs of racism fear
and party money frenzy
for another century or so
in the land of the greed
home of the wage slaves

II.

I woke late today— at 5 a.m.     
     The house already echoes
with birdsong, the sun already     
     begun her rise. I step out
onto dew-tipped grass,     
     to scents of fresh cut hay,
arch back, meet a mass of cumulus     
     puffs— heavy Marengo grey.
We wait together for sun to strike     
     them stronger, and with delight,
she does. Then they glow, glow,     
     glow bubblegum pink.

When clouds dissipate, dawn
whispers, All is clear, and I retreat
to fill pages. But before I end,
I set an alarm for 4 a.m.

Dont let the pain of your past
disable your dream of a new future.

Dont let someone elses opinion
make you doubt who you know you are.

Always make time to smell the flowers, 
blow on dandelions and dance in the rain.

Perfection is an unattainable goal
where as simplicity wont cost you your sanity.

Always have access to bubbles. No one can be
angry blowing bubbles.