The Milky Way
On a flight to the coast
see that we took it down to decorate the earth
see that the ground is darker than space now
the sky choked pink by city lights
towns huddled like stars on the ceiling
as the casual crunch ice with their teeth and doze
Won’t you live in this dead zone
with its peace stretched over your mouth
with its flowers that smell like loamy sperm
we're a shower of truck lights harping the trees
street lights brighten and dim
around every corner there’s a car to blind you
You can choose which mix to play at your funeral
feed the world your name one data field at a time
flash your best Duchenne for the ladies:
I'm a passionate man
I don't take life too seriously
I enjoy the simple things like stargazing
But who's gonna notice when the big dipper's gone
sold to a guy who makes pots with his hands
who strums on a wooden guitar
who frowns
who walks a telescope out to a soccer field
to see Jupiter in the annoying dew.
Down The Mine
Tones of ice falling in a glass
motorized scrapes of a serrated blade quartering limes
grind of acidic juice pushing through the slats in your shaker
These gestures are lost with the measured shakes
citrus flowing through your fingerprints
counting--one, two, three-and-a-half shots of what liquefied grain:
barley, wheat or rye barrelled into life
by the trademarked rituals of evicted monks
None of it matters once I’ve slid over a few bills
not the ores in the knife, nor the burnt coal in each ice cube
not the Persians picking limes, nor your wet knuckles
wrapped around my drinks
rubbing up against a cloth
I swallow these chopped phrases and sink
nodding to a bar-house anthem
dancing my hips toward some scenic overlook
perched on you, thankful
for whatever ghost’s work gave me this wild or sluggish fever.