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the cold crisps a frost glaze over fallen leaves
as i open the kitchen door to the glorious smell of
could the gods have known this nectar distilled
from the essence of water and earth and love
humble things, trimmings, peels, scraps
surrendering their souls to the simmering
which becomes, has become, is become
something other than it's ingredients, it's contents,
it's constituent parts of chicken, of beef, noodle, barley, pea.
it becomes the transformed alchemic ecstasy, that most democratic of all,
without which the spoon would not exist and bread would have no meaning.
that, once inside, floods a universal warm, an orgasmic
celebration of cooperation and sacrifice, a symphony of
notes never before played for the jaded gasteroear.
i lift the lid, pores opening to the

Condensed soup

soup is good.


Angelo never came back
from the store, only blocks away.
The money, inside the note,
in his hand,
inside his pocket,
grasped tightly.
Remember not to lose it, his mother said
Remember to come right home
Remember don't talk to strangers.
But the thing that Angelo would have remembered
was that the man who bought him candy
had shiny eyes, and smelled like pickles.

Angel Star

I first saw it
by the light of the monkeybread moon
Had to dip under the Big Dipper,
and unbuckle Orion's Belt
But it was unmistakably the Angel Star
Smallish, and perfectly formed.
Surrounded by a halo
of unbounded hope and possibility.
And if I squinted,
and looked just right,
I could see the little red wagon,
hitched to it.

Awaiting your arrival

Awaiting your arrival
Is a time like no other
I'm small again,
and the carnival lifts me up
on lights and smells and noise.
The carousel is a little too fast,
so I must move quickly,
as my mount carries me past you.
The ferris wheel tops and stops...
From the zenith I look for your face
but the lights glare and the
crowd swallows you into
it's shapeless shape.
Fear pushes excitement and wonder,
drives those joys out
of the white knuckled hands on the bar.
The slow descent is agony...
Waiting for you to come into my eye,
to be grounded again.
My feet touch the damp earth,
and the clicking rails of the roller coaster
call to me.
Mounting the steps to the wooden platform,
I consider not keeping
my toes behind the yellow line

Faith or ?...

Many animals were harmed during the making of this poem.
Rainforests decimated.
The earth got colder, maybe warmer.
Became overpopulated.
Managed to get itself in the path of an asteroid.
Schoolkids know what tsunami means.

The chickenegg, birthdeath dance,
(they should each be oneword)
continuesends (anotherone!).
We can do nothing but take note.
And like the song says,
Let the good times roll.


Input, sunlight, data, moonbeam.
Wire neuron and synaptic pulse.
Layered pcb fusion,
Huxley's mind-at-large,
With a plug,
And a prayer
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