FRAGPOP No 3.0

so youre having a day

& your control panel
is lit up red

put black tape over it

the way they

put black tape over us

FRAGPOP No 1.4

i used to have

go-fast stripes

you could only see

if you were playing fast & loose

with the moons vim

& the appropriate cogs

inside of the countdown machine

FRAGPOP No 3.2

 

& now the day 

has a glare

coming out 

the asylum windows

& the night 

is an absence 

like sandpaper

used smooth

MOON PHONE

after hanging up
the moon phone
nixon held aloft
a balsa wood space plane

& i think about sugar magnolia
in the march of the shadows

picking plums

&

carrying bones

in the summers holiday surround

INSINUATING, 2 X FRAGPOPS

torn
hot
shreds
of boeing parts

rain
bimonthly

on the school yard astroturf

& the struggling eggshells there

~

now the plastic death cult

has hijacked my priorities

& i search new raincoats online

with every black cloud & shower

instead of painting these muted roses

ABOUT PLUMS

bubbles burst

he told himself
sitting in the sun
smiling like a fool

in a quiet

both made & found

lost briefly

in the beauty

of the careful plums

HOOVER BAG

it looks
just like
as if

god vacuumed up 

all the shavings 

& the trimmings

& all the broken pieces 

& the reject pieces

& all the dried glue curls

& the redundant gristle 

left out & scattered around his work space

with his high falutin coffee stained notes

& then later 

emptied the hoover bag
all over 

this land

hes forgot

PRESSURE ROSE

i have become age

& my head feels beetlejuice small

& i used to be a child

but i ate him

when the pressure rose

on a hair gel

bus stop

morning

ITS IN THE DOING OF IT, IF ITS ANYWHERE PT1

its an
honest jam

if you get on with it

in the morning solitude

coffees by the bakers dozen

or in a kitchen canyon

you carved out the mountains

in the landscape of the day

empties a clutter clog

on the ceramic cistern

blood in your tears

tears in your stool

& squeeze mournful on the player

LEMON FRAGPOP #2

what
is
this
mercury & malware malady

this non-newtonian mallow of thoughts

these questions

this sop

but a takeaway

a lemon bolt diversion

pronged & sharp

to jib 

a knee jerk jag

ABOUT THE WINDOW

the godlight of spring sun
finds the windowsill plants

& paints there 

laser-like outlines

of blue & gold & white & yellow

around the points of leaves

& the swoop of stems

& the wings of petals 

& up the plumb of pots

& its life & glee & art

& the reason & an answer
& it  g l o w s

like heaven glows

in books & stories & tv 

MORNING REPORT #107

i become

a confusion of tenses

when

the
morning
jag

kicked off / kicks in / kacked up ?

under thin grey rags

leaking like nuclear

from the sad dog sun

ABOUT FAUX PANIC

the 

uncertain electric rush
of 

red & purple anxiety
is 

you coming back online
& 

reconnecting your central nervous system
to
whatever hanging drek
passed
for consciousness before

BEREAVED IN RAGS

 

he saw theyre serving 

lobster bisque & onion soup
up on the ISS tonight

& it reminds him

he says
of Gil Scott-Herons poem
Whitey On The Moon

& he tries to remember

he says

that maybe not everything in the sky

means death all the time

as he waits

out the night

bereaved in rags