not long this measured
universe
shall entertain
my thoughts,
if they be fancied
mine
you understand the
the infinite uncertainty
loosely scattered in bright flashes,
dark skies,
increasing silence
laced between
the thunder

touch our shared confusion,
once more portrayed
as good intent,
black ink
in darkness so profound
as gravity tilts
what otherwise might stand
as roses
on a twisted stake,
unclear the aspiration
of an intermittent beauty
falling loosely
on an unmade bed

old boneyards made the perfect sites--
the residents content to wait,
through late-night fornication rites--
for judgment at a future date

sly little sisters took their turn,
when breakups offered openings
to quench the adolescent burn
by covering a load of sins

with stories that got passed around,
a currency as firm as gold,
assuring they were never found
without a little death foretold

next day the brimstone sermons ruled,
in nodding pews post Sunday school

Karl's been drinking since yesterday,
when she came back for her clothes
and the dog he bought her
five or six years ago,
an Irish sitter
that never seemed to trust him,
even though he'd fed it well
and brushed its coat
for the two weeks she'd been gone,
suspecting perhaps
that the whole affair
was more his fault
than the other man's
and surely more than hers.

the man with nothing to say
stretches it
past comprehension,
echoing the future
when all
the voices
return

I do not like you,  Donald Trump,
You're what they also call a ****.
Your life of crime is such a  shame.
You should go back to where you came.
Except they wouldn't have you there,
Not even if you comb your hair.
Disguise yourself as Putin's clown.
Sell out your country going down.

the muse drops in
on a lazy man,
an easy mark
reclining as a well-fed cat
in a spot of sun
that slants its ways
past the crosses in an old window
stuck shut yet still transparent