Poem in the Shape of the Poet.
The god under the tarp prattles
Is not a guide · on the tarn shore
Fiestaware back · each to its place
The frail microclime’s surge · clasp for an answer
At solstice alignment · the ray falls
The word goes out · as the meme spreads
Blue mold appears · on the whole wheat loaf
Shiny traceries left · on the pink brick
People burned alive · in their stalled cars
With the ornate moon · its own mock
Wastebasket lined · with our reused bags
I filled with extruded slime · and stacked tissues
I go back to sit · in the same place
As if fixed in time · a small pyramid
Do I think of myself · as trailing books
Every so often I drop · the abandoned cairn
And rain chances · locally heavy
I forecast drive · through those brick streets
It all burned down · a hundred years ago
Yet the ghost remains on maps · my own real tears
Fast moving pale clouds · with Venus peeking through
Color not a color · from which bombs fall
Elsewhere and otherwise · my taxes paid for
The subfusc veil occults · star and darker gray
"Conservatives are convinced Kamala would melt down doing a full Rogan interview, but if there's anyone who knows how to make charming small talk with people who aren't nearly as smart as they think they are for long periods of time, it's the wife of an LA entertainment lawyer." --@MuseZack
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