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

stfu ode #12: to my morning coffee

oblivious my coffee speaking to me
too early while I am bleary as cold cream
no I don't want to hear your stupid story again
about the mezcalero and the jumping bean
playing poker all night in the back of the truck
on the way from the Yucatán you
so poor nothing to wear but sackcloth
the men in the fields stripping sugar cane
with their machetes toothless from sucking
cane all day rotting their teeth and no
I don't buy the beautiful girl in the factory
had eyes only for you picked you only you
your anguished parting your torment like an oven
from hell I want only lightning or silence
between words the way I want only lightning
or silence between buttered slices of toast lightning or
silence in the interstices of morning storm and wind
to wake to the smell of ozone the smell of burnt
air zapped alive and cupped
in the rain




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

Atomic Dog w/ Whitman

every day, second or third hand, the dog gets a new name:
"Bismarck" say, or "Windham", or whenever I peel a clementine –
the skin fragrant and loose as a nom du plume –
my lingering mind confuses the prerogatives
of gods and poets
 
right now she's "Walt" because someone said
to sniff the grass and that is for sure her dominion,
the adoration and open door of scent, and what she assumes
I too will assume, breathing atoms of the restless
and faceless tide
 
then checking her for ticks and tocks, and time's re-reading
of the leaves before they curl and fall and blow and I forget
what I most needed to say, what was meant as song now
more like the growl of a lawn-mower, the madness of wild seeds
cut down to size




Quickly Now

Rooted

You sniff and snuff for me
next to your pillow
like a sleepy truffle pig
rooting for your prize
even in dreams
 
Maybe love
grows best in darkness –
loamy, unseen –
a carrot say, or turnip
tapping our longing
 
In the morning, all
we can eat is before us
among vases of daylilies, begonias,
the table set
for two




Quickly Now