The Quantumverse
today I reconditioned my 6-ton bottle jack drained and replaced the hydraulic fluid scoured rust with WD40 before that I had planned to launch a rocket of words a fiery blast across the sky but instead I lifted the car 8 inches off the ground which is as close as I can get to flipping something over and lighting the fuse
The Sunday Muse
a pair of egrets flies long and low up the estuary long and low up the water long, beckoning water, white and low to the grasses where they nest across from our window feeling like flight, feeling low, stepping out – my face hidden behind a white wing folded across longing, my legs as strung as reeds from a nest of crow tangle – copper and liquid crystals woven ever tighter by zooming in concentric circles, whirlpools draining silica from an hourglass like sand never up and out, never as white as those feathers with no song, swinging into the air ready to dive and slice into water, speed first
For Quickly
roses by the fence
have clawed their way
from thawed dirt
colors hungry
as if red and yellow had
hibernated underground
all winter
and now devour
the morning
it was you and I
hunkered along the path
between thickets
our eyes foraging
twigs and bristle
that left scars
down the bark
a sight too famished
for Spring
For The Sunday Muse
sometimes the old ways are the best ways
who needs vaccines, I say
let’s roll some heads tumblety-peg
into the volcano of contagion,
appease the lava god in our lungs,
intubate with obsidian knives
fellow free citizens –
you jaguar knights and eagle warriors –
a poet you must choose:
you will rip a heart from its ribs
and light a ceremonial hearth
in the hole in our chests
first paint me blue-starved O2
and surrender my body
to the cash pyramid and the priests
will you then all snake and feathers
dance with immunity
wearing my skin?
For The Sunday Muse
put a tiger in your tongue
lickety-split,
we have a lot of mouths to feed
and only ferocious words on the hunt
to provide
fierce mothers day and night
with the moon like carrion,
dragging home the light
of a dying country, no game
to nourish our children
so if I call you ungulate – you wild pig you
odd-toed, craft-brewed deer –
will you be ungrateful,
flee that leap in my eye,
my mouthful of wonder?
For The Sunday Muse
What can you show me
with your spork mirror,
your runcible visions
of past, present, and future
like when we drove
through the take-out window
at Popeye’s
and unwrapped the cellophane
where you revealed not white plastic
that would break at a touch
and a napkin, but
a feast of all that had passed
in the rear-view, then
watching the rain through the windshield
our road ahead gone
because laughing together
once again
we were too late, too late
for whatever we imagined
the looking glass had on offer.
For The Sunday Muse
lost in a sadness of gold,
our fish killed herself in the night –
swimming up the bubbler jamming her body
in the tube, hose to the car exhaust
of deadly oxygen, engine running
toodle-loo goeth before the fall –
she’d tried it before, I’d rescued her
over and over what sorrows
went unseen in the bright mirror
she’d finned and scaled for us
water the unbearable clarity
of loneliness –
no company but the ennui of snails
and the alien deep-sea diver
unspeaking as a statue
the children came down to breakfast
and gathered round a bier of Kleenex
her wet outline the Shroud of Turin –
a Jesus-fish relic too sacred
to flush
its been years; I’ve been remiss
doesn’t everyone deserve
a proper suicide note –
do the same for me as I would for you
if it ever comes to that
For The Sunday Muse
