STOLEN HALO (November 7, 2013)

Once I fenced a stolen halo

I didn’t ask, she didn’t tell

Paid her thirty shekels silver

Knew a guy to whom I’d sell

 

But his money was counterfeit

I did seventeen months for that jerk

And I guess my only solace

Is stolen halos never work

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ANARCHY IN THE U.S.: CANTO I (November 4, 2013)

Life is the lowest common denominator

DEATH is the greatest common factor

Everything else is cosmological constants

They say the skeleton key is ten or twenty-six dimensions

But how many dimensions do you experience?

What is your calculus to make it all make sense?

“On that day you will die”

And the sun walks on eggshells

But it’s not the sun that’s fighting entropy

We’re the ones on eggshells

Until we give up the sun

For the moon

CHIMNEY ROCK (November 2, 2013)

An afghan of leaves over the mountain path

And unsculpted rocks with bronze-rust mold

Green,

Like Lady Liberty’s huddled masses–

Living monuments

The sun waits for its moment and pours its gold

Down through the orange-zest leaves on the trees

Rain sprinkles on our foreheads

And at the apex I jump across a formation

Like stone tablets cast down from the clouds

Monumental.

For all the deep crevices

Making no effort to hide the banality of peril,

And a greater mountain hovering in the distance,

It feels the top of the world

POISON GHOSTS (October 31, 2013)

It’s a red-letter day but I can’t read the calendar,

A philistine second to none

The priest asks me if I’m saved but I’m too much a spender

And Halloween has just begun

 

I’ve gotten an attic full of poison ghosts a-plenty

A Jackolantern on the deck

I trick or treat oh-so-very innocently

Don’t want to give it up so quick

 

I’m dressing up like a spooky Friday’s waiter

Wearing an apron made of chains

I’ll eat too much candy but may pay for it later

Momma’s annual refrain

 

I’ve got an attic full of poison ghosts and phantoms

It’s really all just in good fun

They’re no scarier than ol’ Marilyn Manson

If you’d like, I could lend you one

 

Aside

My feet played the percussion of Medusa’s stairway

Young as they were.

 

That innocence was the manchild father of

    Adulthood innocence,

And I had neither.

 

As I looked at her I saw

Exotic snakes I never feared,

My sword in hand.

 

All the old myths have melted

  like snow on the street

Dripping water torture into the sewers.

 

Medusa is dead by her reflection,

But that only

  by my mirror.