Party

Pry words

like stubborn

mussels off my tongue

It’s been this way

from before I

can remember

You see me

seek anchor

wispy plastic bag

in the swell

Wander my way

you lonely island

Sugar on Lemon

You can still just 

about pinch at summer

if you’re nimble

and are able

to sprinkle imagination

sugar on lemon

sun on cold steps

You can still just

about scratch out affection

if you’re sanguine

and are able

to see beyond lost time

sugar on lemon

white wine on ice

I'm a Fool to Want You

I’m a fool 

to want you

I’m a stringless kite

and you’re the sky

The ground doesn’t want me

yet I can’t much fly

I’m a fool

to hold you

I’m a child’s toy boat

and you’re the sea

I’m forlorn on the shore

yet your waves break me

to want a love 

that can’t be true

I'm a buoy on the tide
and you're the moon

I'm pulled by your body
a tethered balloon

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!