Flight 1827 YVR to OGG

Tangerine ceiling melts into
          rose with peppermint stripes.
These are the revolving hues above
          the sortie signs
and we fidgeting passengers
          poke the touch screens
          forgot how fast thin air shimmeys
          swift past cold aluminum skin
          forgot the black between
                                    below the sky top;
                                    above the white caps.

("Orange is stronger than yellow,
    but black is stronger than orange.")

WE, the profligate, the pampered,
              propel ourselves to paradise
              burning future as we combust
                                                                                    upper troposphere.

Not even dimly aware of
               Somali misery,
               the way it feels to die starving,
               the sickness of a poisoned Cree lake.

Such thoughts were not invited on this

               vacation.

Pure Garbage

Let me write some pure garbage. I have permission.


The swine were spelunkering in yellowed modules when a frontal lobe fired, basking on a frozen beach, far from the perfunct and ravage of nocturnal snookers. Tiny monkey man, jovial, and jaw-hammering, crossed a cake walk while needle toothing infant Molly walking with a spineless banjo and 13 prestidigitators manifesting orange spires noticed only by the wayward hyenas, who slurp cheezy bark nostrils, all furry and raspberried. The raspula was ground down, into jello, the norq was Oliver's brandy, a fine fumarole spouting only at the king tide, ankled down by brambles and foamy-mouthed hounds. Oh Yellow meadow, glory in the mane, frolic shall your progeny inherit. And frolic will their leotards and daffodils underwrite. Down to the smallest dollar.

Change back guaranteed.

Three Times

Far and Vague,
             a rainbow-gilt sanctuary:
             imagined future land
             where in I dare not stand out
             lest this quarter hundred year's yearning
             collapse in mire
             squeaming    constipated    regret.

Here and clear,
             kitchen solarium:
             vacant Saturday
             where wrinkles of light glance past
             cresting, ebbing, sharpening, blurring
             fading to drab
             swallowing    interlude    whole.

Dim and fleet,
             suspended orchids, tented congregations:
             memory scraps
             where quavering embarrassment carved notches,
             scarred stones marking miles
             mostly unremembered
             but    spurring    still.

Tree Rings

Grain of strands
          dark sharp line sweeps
                    into pine cream
          delineating
          another
          solstice.

          Each season pocked by
                    whispers
                    crow preening
                    under spiked
                    needle fists shadow,
                    spliff tweezers.

Remnants of spider parachutes
          anchored on
                   knife of chocolate-fragranced bark
          elongates into stream
                   of thin winter wind.

T'is the Season

Blinking stalactites dangle
          encrusted in silver and red
          plastic holly and sparkling rose whorls
While drooling wheelchair trolley
          treads up food court ramp
          toward Santa.

Languid murmurings echo suffusion
          below chair skid melody, like tiny trumpets
And a shine of warmth
          climbs down through the clouds and glass,
          lightly drawing my eyelids together
          russet clouds filling mind's eye.

Here, it's seekers' haven.
          traffic'd by cart and walker
          toting tall cups of Tim's
          sucking smoothie straws
          and dangling babies
                                by the arm pits.

Little boy tramps blue gum boots.