Morning clouds
give way
to blue—

the burning off
of dross,

as I give way
to rote movement:

physical,

mental,

spiritual—

shedding
what no longer
serves,

like leaves
falling slow
into light.

A pick chops ice

the smell of bounty
caught

from the right side
of the boat

coins jingle
paper bills shuffle

God provides so
they say

as well as pirates

It's what you do
rather

than what you say
two scoops

in a waffle cone

thunder

lightning

rain drops
pelt the window

your face

insanity never felt
or tasted

so good

Hanging

paper mache skulls
painted guitars
gaudy sombreros

black smoke rising
to blot out

the sun

red trucks
Departemento De Bomberos

no no no
no Policia

why

they might show up

wall nope

a thin line

if crossed
Papa will say
is South

of sanity

Awake now
the bed's been made

with wrinkles
in the checkered spread
flattened out

no more calamity
the thunder and rain
gone

away

like magic if magic
was about

loss

August
but crisp with bite

cold white sun

I remember that day
the lake

so far away
for me and others

wanting
and not knowing

why

Slots buzz and ring
coins clatter

neon
splashes

like spilled paint

they say


New York
is the city that never sleeps


it's a caffeine-fueled insomnia

but in Reno
you're lucid dreaming

and frantically searching
for the door

the one that leads
back

to consciousness