Poem 60

Picking up a penny from under a grocery store checkout,
Rewind, pan out, wide angle.
Picking up a penny, in the A&P, in 1984, in the evening sometime, from under a grocery store checkout, while mommy pays with cash.
Rewind rewind, pan out more, trolley out to ext shot.
Picking up a penny that has been dropped by an old woman, while the snows of 1984 Indianapolis circle outside, bunching up in drifts, icing up roads, people covering and rushing inside, and a wintry breeze gets down in the collar of my coat as I bend, touch the not-strictly-copper of the penny, and pick it up from under the grocery store checkout as my mom pays with her bartender tip money, knowing she’ll have to cut corners somewhere, and
zoom in zoom in zoom in tight, macro,
three frail skin cells of the old woman who survived two wars, a depression, a kindly but distant husband and too many dead sons touches my fingertips and for a moment I feel lucky, and sad about the penny under the grocery store checkout, but
zoom out to top down view, somewhere above in the corner of the store,
I put it in my pocket anyway as we go out into a bygone winter.

Poem 59

A dnd McKnight sat cross legged on a bus,
His ranch funds low, his mind sipping billboard glow.
Hue side bugle sighs cascaded in the afternoon haze,
From the market windows and the drive thru views.

He wanted infinite escape from the alchemical but
There were the Abbas the turtles the months the baby,
The monshkas, the defeated periods, the den where love
Foxed in marginal paper outline breakers.

A dnd McKnight sat cross legged dining oak firm
On pink hams and quest item foes.
The evening a fiendish sidekick to his lacking meme.
He kicked sideways at a frowning lily pad.

Poem 55

weed bittered wind devils degrade the scenery

as we dine on wound down clock parts skyped from

inside the guts of the night we last felt light in our skins.

 

hell is made by people who want you to hurt for being yourself.

 

i just made a fridge magnet poem from the gravy boat sky,

it sucked as much it sounds like it should,

only good works are made by the righteous now,

and we dine on the clock parts which have

wound down from nights as bastard sized

as the eyes of a japanese monster trying to raze the crazed city mazes

that are navigated by touch, taste, sex and mutual affectation.

Poem 53

Laid down in the usual SOS posture
Nothing can be done, wee one, its undone.
Bunsen burner alarms sounding in the night,
Science scissored The Lord from the sheep.

I am alone we are alone he is alone.

Radio do harm, idea us into rhythm breakage!
Deliver me, deliver my pizza kingdom in 30 or less,
Free owl of Athena to good home.
The temple is bringing isms.

Jason murdered his argonauts with d&d calm.

poem 52

great white shark mouthed bastion of the battle weary,
bring down the sunshine apocalypse.

breakdown lane lover passed us by.
flew low over cornfield glow,
rest assured there were goblins in the works
hammering the cogs till they couldn’t turn.

Lakes full of soon and never overspill into us,
We fade in light,
We burn under industry gaze,
Great white shark mouthed bastion,
Deliver the handmade execution covers,
Grind new spices from our old hope.

There can be weeks all in a toil,
Years in a spot of funk,
Decades in which nothing happens to us,
But seconds separate us from greatness.

Poem 49

There’s jerk in the sound if final game smokejumper haloes remember
We have never been to the Utah dime stores.
I walk wield a window wool scarf
It sheds theism like a duck sheds water.

There can bend now trees out of the agenda forest,
They will clamor for the disk and the thumb drive brain song
But they will never find us alone and harmed again.
We was armed before they alarmed us to their charms.

I bring shotguns to make peace with the element
I bring south funds to make peace for the enemy,
I bring shotgun medicine for the enemy to be cured on.