~
This isn't happening
all of the sudden
we need to close the beaches
and call in sick

Don't cry again teargas
it's not your fault
don't get hot there gun
you gave it your best shot

Song and dance, weekend warrior
soothe your soul
with a little radio friendly fire

The forest can be petrified
the sea wild
working without a mask
is both, you know

It's quite out of this world
but you haven't
really seen outerspace
until you've had DayQuil
with dissociatives

Then you take hot trips
to odd places
like an international
convenient store
where they're always
out of Africa and milk

I wish Monday mourning
would go jump off a bridge
I wish taco Tuesday
would become a festive holiday
nevertheless, our girl Friday
is always good for the job

The weight has lifted
the wait has (week)ended
the search for
my socks and sanity
can now kick off
~

.
If our family was a tree,
you must be the roots.

Forever planted,
forever supporting,
forever nurturing.

Just so that all of us,
may bask in the amber
of the sun...
And bathe in the silver
of the moon.

.

-

i could imagine this word
being used by a hypnotist
to induce a trance

or maybe typed in as a fake
name on a website to get
access to free software–

but i would really like
to put this into some
possible context,

(being how i just
thought of it)

(~!@"–MoonFish–"@!~)

i could cast a line into
the Sea of Tranquility
and pull one out

pop a tab on a beer
while firing up my
portable grill,

scale it, clean it,
cook it-
                eat it.


(<Moon-Fish>)

the name of a poem written
for somebody who works
at a fisherman's wharf,

moonlighting as a night
watchman kicking rats
off the pier.

moon fish—

a phrase coined by an
amateur poet for an
idea that may never
actually come to being...



s jones
Apr 2021


.

he bleeds music
liquid melodies and clotted rhythms
that spurt in pulsating streams
from the open wound
of his beating heart

he lives in the key of b
with a love
that cannot
be freed

For most of my son's life
I was his teacher,
Now as an adult man
my son is teaching me.

He picks at the fray of her gaze
‘til she frowns. Sews shut her mouth

with too many questions.

We grow roots.

Sun shines hot through a tall window, and
she curls to me like vine.

We wind together, sway ‘til her small hands
whisper at the nape of my neck -

Finished, done.