FF 55

Christmas Nor'easter,
waves crash-landing
from wind's broken navigation,
I kneel on the beach and dig 
for Amelia Earhart's bones.
  
Yes here, yes now,
my arms sweeping sand
like Electra's wings,
to answer just one death
of the tall and the lost.
  
Next to me
the cadaver-sniffing dog,
furious, frenzied,
finds a baloney sandwich
from WWIII. 

Friday 55

TSM 139

This will be about rope.And so?
Turk’s Head knots
for eyes.Just because you say “trefoil”
doesn’t make it true.
Braided X’s.Like eyes sewn shut. Whipstitch is it?
Coils and splices.You are spliced to me, yes.
Coils of smoke. I gave up my Marlboros
when you were four.
You are bent in death.Bend – to join one rope to another. What ties us?
Our rigging of blood.
Neither
Neither
of us make correct use
ofof
shroud.
shroud.
Why are these nautical, I was a cowgirl.
Arroyos to the Panhandle
look like the bottom of the sea.
You would have meYou would
hoist
hang
the solstice.me with the sun.
Blocks and sheaves to lift
Swing me
from the crack of noon.
the dawn.
Bight, cordage, knot,
Bite, pull, thread, lash,
tangle what is
living
dying
release
me
from you.
You know you do not mean that.
Braided
Plied
into every strand.

The Sunday Muse

TSM 138

I guess just throw it
on the compost,
this dead swan at the bottom
of the road.
  
So much larger here at my feet –
a dead, feathered cello,
neck bent around to bow
a low moan.
  
It was never white, I can see
it was a living light,
bright silver now brushed with death
to mottled grey. 
  
Prisms of dew 
bead the wings –
tasting flights of fine oil
feeding mites.
  
No prayer 
here.
I roll like a dog
in dead words. 

The Sunday Muse

TSM 137

Winter rain splats like an egg 
in a cold frying pan.
This morning my mind 
is refrigerated, congealed,
a rictus of cheap margarine –
I scoop fat substitute thoughts
with a spatula. They splat in the pan too,
alongside the egg.

Isn't there meant to be
an order to things? Heat 
first, then butter, then egg?
Kitchen mullions rattle
as the Nor'easter tests their strength.
The vacant house across the way –
Is this the year the windows break?
Will it give up the ghost
in a final shiver of broken glass?

Outside in the storm, as with the world,
birds have abandoned flight.
No flying south to depilate winter,
the bikini waxing of dreams –
no tweezing the snow moustache
from elderly Florida swans.
No way to take the hair 
off it all.

You toss me a frozen bagel and laugh –
hardtack or life buoy 
for a morning's survival, 
my shipwrecked words 
wash ashore this deserted island.
The rain slants, cants,
through these old portholes. 

The Sunday Muse

Quadrille 117

You,
clawed 
as dragon fruit

There can be no aubade,
no gentle lifting
the morning light

Paring back sheets
like skin of soft plums
to abide this leaving

Only
the heart of fire
like the sun 

In my palm
burns just to say
goodbye 

dVerse Quadrille

TSM 136

A poem plunged into the seaI hear you singing
I row to where the words riseThe Water is Wide
moil, roil 
in columnslost in time, escarpments, translation from the Malagasy
The return of the Sargasso Comet 
The Salt MeteorIt was hard to tap the sky
and break through clouds
quarried of marble 
Are your tatters of seaweed
meant for wings?I am tired of sinking ships and sailors
I fly the slick and rope of sorrow
And soAnd so
Were you ever Icarus?I’m sorry, no
And soAnd so
I return to shoreYour oars are oak and stripling ash
The forest has no place at sea
I press the ore blades across my chestI will bring the lightning
Restart my heartOne hundred hundred times
For this I love you

The Sunday Muse

Subjective

Subject isPrecarious
Subject isPredicated on beginnings
Without end 
Subject isContemplating **-a-cide, you
Fill in the blanks 
Subject isBeyond repair, beyond
ContemptBeyond
The pale 
Subject isExcruciating
Subject isSubject to further revision
Subject isWM, 6’3″, no prior record
Subject isExhausted, the horse is still dead
Subject isTrigonometry, you pale, OK, fine
Subject isHistory, 3rd period
PeriodWithout recourse
SubjectTo indifference
SubjectTo theorems of poems
ProvingLove by first solving Poe’s
TintinnabulationOf the bells bells bells bells bells bells
Plotting like the grave 
Sub plotsSub sub-terranean
Sub sub-woofer Is a dog under the
Table 
Sub voce temperamentsFrayed as old socks
Subject toThe Queensbury rules
 Subject of the Queen
SubjectOf the Queen, essay of no more than
500 wordsSubject to
SubjectionSub-ecstasy
Sub-liminalUnderneath limes and lemons, covered
With citrusSubject to
ApprovalWithholding
WeatherHay Fever
SubjectivismSubjectivity
SubjectionPrecedes
DejectionPrecedes
 Precludes
Occludes 
SubmissionThe mission
To wend it allTo begin under
A cloudTo begin no matter
WhatFinally begin
BeforeAll is said
And Done 

What the hell.

Subjects for Quickly and Quickly

TSM 135

the Sheep-to-Shore 
phone rings
  
you say ignore 
the elephant in the room
  
during Thanksgiving dinner
its ass-end smell
  
turkey
and gasoline from 
  
the fuming motor
of democracy winching it
  
through the doorway
hoping the walls don't burst
  
then we can just go back
to where we left off 
  
our regular grift and
holding our noses for 
  
Isaiah 53:6 
all we like sheep 


The Sunday Muse