18.7.17

Want to Be a Bard? (Highly Not Recommended)

                                           
During the day tether down

your poor lonely lost soul

to the sandy shore

At night: The light. The Light!


Leave as the sun sets

Make like a bird and fly

in the direction of any wind,

talk to everyone,

feel every thing,

no matter how scary

because you fear not!

No matter how much

you scare those fiends

in the night, no matter

how creepy you are found,

follow each sound high or hollow

with your freaky Gnostic prescience

Be beyond all that fucking science!

They just don't know.

They just. Don't know.

They. Just. Don't. Know.

You know.

You. Know.

You.

~ Clancy's, Scottsdale, Arizona, July 17. 2017. 9:30 p.m., as the night's monsoon storm was moving in



13.7.17

Poolside


Four pigeons
by the whirlpool
coodling up chlorine

Flying life, safe as ginger
in a cabinet,
extrapolates lifespan

The wingspan
of swimming pool pigeons
is dependent upon supply,
depth and demand

It is to the good fortune
of the young chicks
that their short necks,
soft beaks, cannot
reach down to drink

Six poisoned pigeons
find survival in the short-term
risk at the swimming pool lip

Later, they will plummet
to the floor of the cooing
concrete cooridor

Anonymous slaughterers
break off with the wind,
bleached and careening

6.7.17

Bull Run Fire



Five miles east

wind in my face

and the fire plume,

a violet volcano

Five miles east, but close enough,

the white wash coat of burned juniper

forcing the Saturn in the nostrils,

Hackberry Mountain, fizzling out

in a downpour, monsoon downdrafts

blowing ash into a many shouldered beast

We went home and made a list

of what we would need when

the call for evacuation came,

craving a disaster to bring

the memory awake, the dreaming down.

Great thin-legged clouds spiderwalk

their way across the purple ridge,

purple with weather; precious things

shake in their cupboards, forgotten.

Lightning pounds the mesas,

the wind pushing down in atomic bundles

of white orange flasks of violence,

a curtain on the sun, a dirty window of light,

a blowout of compressed desires

pressing the sky, re-animating us

2.7.17

Dying Satellite (Was/Not Was)


And so like Icarus with wings
breathing of Promethean fire
stolen from Zeus
cast down from heaven
a Satanic star tumbling
through the void
this mixed red and green lit
metaphysical mixed metaphor
tumbles down to Earth 
for the laughing hilarious
amusement of all who roam
all who crawl on dirt
all paying good money
for a public fireworks display
all those never understanding
this will be they someday