Robert, I, too, 
have plucked a beauty 
from the branch 

before first frost
when elves still dance,
and I have touched 

10,000 more, 
and so, I guess, 
the need for grace

He cast a spell on me.
He always was a charmer,
Sanguine, dashing, and debonair.

With Fifi, Christine, and Bitsy Bits, 
He played the game:
Paddywhack, bunny kick, and nip . . . 
My little piece of  

black velvet magic
like Puss in Boots
foot upon ogre 

“Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it whether it exists or not, diagnosing it incorrectly, and applying the wrong remedies.” —Groucho Marx

take care
with how you rub dizzy
silver iridescence
into spurts 
of violent smoke

city, sand, 
or jungle . . . 
genie’s bottle . . .
do not draw too close
to the explosion

*from Proverbs 23:3

yellow ants surrender to two halves of sky

A water main bursts & swallows a car. You had to be there. Same with the yeti. You know what I mean.
 

snOw
snow
NO

 

Time’s not sands, it’s gardens.
Not hot and granular and soulless
but sprouting, blooming,
shrinking, reverting to its dormant state.

Time’s not the footprints, so fragile,
they can’t survive the following tide.
It’s the promise even in the dying stem,
the curled up, rotting petals.

Along the beach, kids build castles
no one lives in, adults tan skin that’s soon to fade.
The garden goes about time’s business.
Its roots can’t help themselves.

ramen slurping until decompression

from contemplative AI to consuming lobsters

breathe in breathe outsourcing the hexagon

given 400 thoughts spring