Thursday, December 12, 2013


(Isaiah, a Red Shuttleworth crayon sketch)


Every time Isaiah nodded off, the Voices
leaked some god's secrets onto his tongue.
Tonight my eyes pass in front of a jiggled
moon hung weepy-faced before time began:
our Sunday products include wool-mouth,
weeping airport strangers, tattered expired-
coupon wallets.  Yes, Isaiah 17...
Damascus is a ruinous heap:  Jeep-flattened
back-benchers, hand-amputated babies,
Assad kissing fan mail from Putin and Kim.
No wonder the beautifully ribboned
missionary girl asked, You been prayin'
your Isaiah, dude?  No wonder breasty
centerfold models no longer read my poems.
Tonight's moon, gap-toothed and pallid,
yeast for bacteria-bread, moans across the sky.

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