the sky a chain-smoking haze of coughing grey there are no parallels there are only parallels to the rutting earth where the whales, dutifully dragged themselves again out of the sea not to return to the land but to plow it under
Category: The Sunday Muse
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
qbit 