THE MOON AIN’T NEW

the rust-colored moon
grown old in a brief eclipse
I almost missed it

REDO/NEED YOU

I keep hitting the button,
but nothing ever happens.
Or, rather, it keeps happening.
The uninterrupted flow, the intake.
No pause. I can’t find the pause.
I want to hire a security consultant
to look back at our less guarded
moments for points of entry.
I want to second-guess my third
personality, I want in.
I want a frame, and some bubble wrap,
and a one-use tranquilizer dart
to help capture the moment.
I keep hitting the pause, but
nothing ever happens. Or, rather,
it keeps happening…

MEMORY CHECK

So many of us gather at the checkpoint,
our fingerprints frayed at the edges,
smudged, indiscriminate, our identities
already a muddle, currency a second guess.
We hurry through, busy shadows inside
a larger frame work. We are afraid
to be empty, but we had to leave
so much behind. Memories are what
weigh the most, dragging us beneath
the roiling tide. Now, new ones
are being supplied, to anchor us here;
entire stock photo galleries of family
and friends, pinned to our tattered collars.
There are PowerPoint back story presentations,
seminars on the ties that bind, helpful hints
for awkward small talk around the kitchen table.
It is dizzying, a burden and a release at once.
To be able to point at a blank spot on a page
and say, “The story starts here…”

BESIDES

Doing yard work for my mom
a heron swings past the treetops
its' heavy wings tipped dim red in sunset
I stop for a sec/besides myself

BETTER NOT…

Across the heat-stricken Afterscape,
the bodies scattered in cindered embrace,
widening out in concentric circles
beneath the looming, blank-faced monolith
inscribed at its’ base (in the finest of print):
“Better Not Named”

TRICKSTER 2.0

My spirit guide got lost
on his way to meet me,
huffed glue for visions,
and was the most flat-footed
dance partner I ever wobbled
across a prairie rug with.

He left my pockets empty
and my eyes like tea cups,
awaiting scalding intake.
He claimed to be the latest
hybrid model: Trickster 2.0
but I had my doubts.

He left my sore-toed and thirsty,
my forehead a blazing billboard
for lack of thought.
He left me folded up
like a lozenge to lay
on my own tongue…

(PS: I tasted terrible)

JUBILATION JUDAS GOAT

Amen. Wait, you didn’t hear the ending.
We left their throats cut, we thought cash
up front was pretty self-explanatory---
pillars of salt and golden calves, et all.
Call it on the job insurance, a few false
idols swept under the carpet.
Call me anything, but not
late for dinner. So you’re saying
the DNA corrupts the crime scene?
Get in line. Don’t believe, unless
it’s been left out to die…