The birds that stick around
don’t sing much
in winter, I mean,
what is there to sing
about? They are cold
and probably envy
their migrating friends;
I hang with them,
through the winter,
give them seed and suet,
fatness to keep them warm,
but tonight, the birds
are singing again, and
the robins are back,
so, I guess it is
time to shout;
The birds will sing
and I will shout,
I will let my
happiness out.
let it be a song

A lone sailor,
wistfully making his way
to the coast of Venezuela
to visit his ailing mother,
his sail in taters
from a vagrant wind,
his small engine
belching smoke
and overheating,
looked up and saw
the sky fall;
space debris
splashed all around him;
he crossed himself
and wondered.

Do I need to escape
to realms of wonder?
I have been impregnated
with the banal existence
of assumed reality
for too long,
and my mind grows
restive

there are things you were counting on,
out there, weren't there,
things you thought that you knew,
things that were not there,
are not there, never were there,
things that just would not do,
so you turn up the volume,
invent you some things,
things that you'd like to be true
and you conjure, and pause,
and give cause to the clause
that says anything goes; it is true

You may ask yourself, ‘why is there carpet in the bathroom,’ but it will only be a detail in the description of where you are. The bigger question is why? Did you come here for solace and not find it? Were you anticipating a differentiation from your drab routine? Well, you got that, but there are things you weren’t counting on, aren’t there?

and you know me,
I am the squeaky
slipping sound
of the cork,
with the pop
at the end;
I think I lost
my cork,
how does
that happen?
I can guarantee
that wine will stay
in the glass until
it is poured
into the mouth,
and that the excesses
of breakfast
will not be blamed
on the midnight snack

It really does feel good
to get all that dam-
ned laundry folded,
here is satisfaction;
nice, clean, almost fluffy
piles of things to wear.