TSM 120

moonrise ablates the early stars
bleaching pinblue beauty into
a sky of goddamn mashed potatoes 
you said let's shoot the moon
and for once I agree its gotta go
that jackal scavenging sunlight
that feral cream cheese so dangerously
fattening but still
my aim steady I'm shooting the sh*t
and it drops like Hogzilla
like a quarter in a coke machine like
the last white dodo attempting flight
and now it's gone, its rasterized
tyranny stripped from poems
a thousand books fall like Byzantium
and the sack of Constantinople
incinerates the number line
of the Dewey Decimal System
from 521 to 527 wiping out Celestial Navigation
burn baby burn what did you expect be
careful what you say to poets
we might take you
at your
word


The Sunday Muse

TSM 119

another day sniffing the armpits of angels
humidity rank with birdsweat
their spent avian fuel
 
the air close with burnt feathers
heat shields that gave out
on re-entry
 
now God hacking up
hairballs of spark plugs
and broken wings
 
all the Gabriel-class hawks
gone to ground even
the sparrows hallow-eyed


The Sunday Muse

TSM 118

dear god please
  no more flinging
bling bling rubble
  at our blue green sea streak soup
 
no comet kamikazes
  flaming ‘saurus burgers and kebabs
no asteroid suicide bombers
  their ocean seafood boil
 
we've got enough with tsu tsu namis
  tse tse flying
tsk tsk virus
  its all too much
 
playing planet pinball
  down the middle no free games
flippers flying you swear and tilt
  curveball space and time


The Sunday Muse

TSM 117

now I think the instructions to perform a
CAT Scan
didn't mean I wave a cat over you while
you slept
as I looked to your body for poems my
love, not
scratch and struggle and Howl in shamanic pain or
the dog
doggerel barking frenzied free verse
waking you
my dear I'm sorry for the caterwaul, the catafalque
of poems
I've scrawled, their jagged arrhythmia ECG monitor
boop boop
hooked up to arterial dreams scanning and probing for
heart
murmurs


The Sunday Muse

Quickly Now

TSM 116

ok I squeezed the mirror like a rag
to wring out a jangle of silver
how you said I could help myself
to coin of the realm
that mirrors charge
 
for passing us from front to back and back
again
pitching quarter after quarter from the car window
into Charon's plastic toll booth bucket
on ramp off ramp rewinding
 
until no quarter
from the reflection of your face
so much faster than the current
of the river Styx in rearview
you Windex my eyes
 
and place an empty shard of glass
in my mouth like the last dollar
to buy passage
ferry what's left of today's failing light
to the other side




The Sunday Muse

TSM 115

are you asking
whether my mind is gin-clear
as anyone who drinks to sterilize
 
their blood
and wash away
the viral crown of thorns
 
lodged like a burr
in lungs of the faithful
or are you just checking
 
when I roll a whisky stone
to close the tomb
I wipe it down with alcohol




The Sunday Muse

TSM 114

bleach baby beach bones
walking down the boygirl burial sand
I step on a fury of roses
 
thorns from the vine
of casket-strength sea spines
tail of tales of sting-ray die-off
 
sun's rays sea's rays sting rays
risibly risking sun and waves
of denial anger grief
 
the long spike spiked
with shark tooth hunger
red sun rising in a weather bloom
 
off my foot rose madder
and madder and madder still life
blood nor pain are lightfast
 
offshore seals moan
what's my tune sharp scaled
staccato of bones




The Sunday Muse

TSM 113

beyond any reason's sky,
it makes me angry –
this beautiful Oxford garden
of 100 years ago
with two young girls
dressed in baby blue eyes
 
why would you send me light
forever trapped
between two plates of glass
like a virus mounted and stained
with the lives of saints
on lab slides for cathedral windows
 
if light bears witness to the past
I want for war paint
the distant, ancient stars –
scars, galaxy blue across my face,
novae,
my catastrophe of sight




The Sunday Muse

TSM 112

waking again with hair sticking up
like antlers,
my COVID doo and don't,
pillow wet where dreamwater
leaked from the corner
of my mouth
 
now the grass-fed belly of clouds
and thinking to gut them –
slice them open with the
knife edge of my palm,
hang them to bleed out
then salt and dry
 
or better my hair
is a field of antennae
scanning for life, where
Heaven plays its Top 10 hits
on the radio telescope 
in my skull




Quickly Now & The Sunday Muse

TSM 110

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