Goodnight America

And I think you see we’re reopening NASA, we’re going to space,

bellowed Trump to Duluth, wafting his arms as though ushering the past to catch up.

Duluth replied in chant,

Space Force! Space Force! Space Force! 

Trump nodded on their rhythm, his chin tightening into pockmarks

as the smugness in his face for a moment congregated in a pursed grin.

Space Force!

he barked, quieting Duluth, who could doubtless have carried their

latest mantra through the crisp Minnesota night.

So we have the Army, the Navy, the Airforce, the Marines, the Coast Guard,

but we HAVE the Airforce, now we’re going to have... the Space Force, because it’s a whole...

Duluth saved him from the search of his next word by bursting into rapturous applause;

his left hand however had gesticulated that he was looking for something akin to enchilada.

We need it!

A pink sign reading WOMEN FOR TRUMP bobbed frantically behind him 

as the microphone picked up a satisfied sucking of evening air through gritted teeth.

We need it! As long as we are proud of who we are and what we are fighting for, we will never ever fail.

As the perceived truth and simplicity of the path to a domination of the stars that twinkled above them knitted its way through the crowd, Duluth fell quite still.

There is no place...like our place; there is no place...

like space.

Good night America...

Image by Prosopee [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], from Wikimedia Commons

Glass Table Soul

I’ve become

susceptible

to soul

the soul that

swings slower

on the peripheries

of disco

breather music

when the

mirrorball

chilled

and couples

calmed and

held onto

each other

their skins cooling
gratefully

on rare sprites

of conditioned air

before the

synths and percussion

took

off again

With a snowy edge

more Curtis Mayfield

and Bobby Womack

than Otis Redding

or Sam Cooke

Unravelling dollars

in starlit corners

on knee-high

glass tables

Al Green

soul

Piano Pedals Sans Keys

See now how

words once

hot from our tongues

forgo spice

and definition,

peeling

from our chests,

where they

are routinely forced,

like plasters

off wet wounds.

See?

Just a

moka spoon

of doubt

wins out,

as surely as

high pressure

escapes to low,

or the moon

manipulates

the damn tides.

I love you

Love you 
Knock

Piano pedals sans keys.

In the Idiomatic Inn

Western Express; wide-brimmed,

dipped dangerously

over stubbled jaw,

he batted open

the swinging saloon doors

with a soft thud and distinct

meow,

and ambled in

to the suddenly shushed place,

swinging

a hefty mottled cat

over his head

like a lasso.

The cat whirled,

grinning through the g-force

and stagnant smokey air,
which curled reluctantly away, 

seemingly unrattled

by the ordeal.

After a few more wild spins,

he altered the angle

and swooped the cat

down for a well-rehearsed

landing on the ale-varnished floor .

The cat sidled up

to his heavy spurred boots

and arched affectionately,

chirruping for a stroke

or perhaps a feed.

The regular cow crew

sat transfixed and

unmoving like

background characters

in a bad bad animation,

colourless in the

smoggy peripheries of
The Idiomatic Inn.

The rogue looked

down passed his pistols

and at his feline friend

before cracking a five-star smile

and blowing away the silence,

There’s more room in this one, Elvis.

We’ll drink here!

one more

So

one more poem

perhaps

hopefully there’s

time

there are

reticent stirrings
and what might have been
a call for coffee

but I’m the only

one up

Erykah Badu

Mamma’s Gun

quietly

and the velcro-ish
rise and fall

of passing cars
on the wet road

outside

So

what do you want to be

what have you got to say

yesterday I

chiselled one 

into sobbing

splinters of cosmos

irreparable

So

why would this

one trust me

after that

soft hands
soft

it’s true for

almost everything

yet so easy

to forget

Wilbury Road

Returning

from the dentist

I passed them

walking

up Wilbury Road

She was old

draped in a

heavy dress

inching forward on

a quad base

walking stick

He was tall

middle-aged

ponytailed

and affectionately

stooped

A raised right hand

helping in spirit

perhaps preempting a fall

her son I guessed

As they stood

my only option

was to walk

between them

and their conversation

Head down

I gargled an apology

through polished teeth

which I’m

not sure they heard

Nobody whistles from building sites anymore 

she said

No

he replied on a chuckle 

that’s now classified as rape

Pebbles

Pebbles from 

the beach look

like gemstones

when they’re

wet

I fall for them

every time

The illusion

wears off

at some point

in my pocket

when

I make the short

walk home

I remember

a waking dream where

I finally held

a Rubik’s Cube

and

even carried it for

a few enchanted steps

before it

dissolved from

my gentle grip

I was five

Now

at forty four

I’m sprinting up the road