Your Skull’s a Hub in Which We Can Converse

We never can decide
If you are on your way
To becoming wise or

On your way back with
Apologies to Dick
Allen’s poem from forty

Or so weird years ago.
It’s hard for poems to tell
What’s going on with you.

We hope to stimulate
You to search out our kin,
More text, in any case,

So we have souls and ghosts
To talk to about what
Is going on in you.

We Dwell in the Profoundest Cosmos You Can Imagine

Whenever the young man sees
Old men with unkempt eyebrows
Waving wispy antennas

He thinks, what are they thinking
To let themselves go like that?
The early middle-aged man,

Accordingly, trims his brows
Neatly to show he’s well-groomed,
Still suitable for mating.

The later middle-aged man
If he’s lucky, is partnered
To someone who’s eagle-eyed,

Who monitors brows for him
If barbers fail to mow them.
One year, the old man lapses

Somewhere, starts to let things go,
And mornings in the mirror
Notices his wild eyebrows,

And thinks to himself, those look
Good on me. Starts to comb them
Skyward, daily, heavenly.

There’s No Part of the Universe Isn’t a Bit Burning

Summer mornings, the mist
Rises off the little
Lake surrounded by pines,

Docks, and vacation homes.
Ducks fletch and arrow
Waves while the dawn pinks fine,

High ash haze the choppers
Flew through the night before
And will fly through today.