Regular Actor

There is chaff around my rags
and a swoon in my nodal moon.
A deep horror of petrichor
greets me daily at the bar.
I don’t go to San Diego
for burritos anymore and
Ikea’s cult-fave bookcase
sits undelivered on my porch.
A friend said there’s no code for rolling
from The Darkness to The Flood 
though we both know full well
what black be the beauty of
this last rain date in April.
Maybe I do make magic bad 
and if true I want a tattoo of that 
to rouse the piss out of this 
slow-dance/burn tune
of foopah cosplay musing.
On the other hand
my other friend said
puddles and slush
still prism the sun
to weather the scent
of wet cement 
and there are twenty-seven
as-yet-undreamt-of 
broad transcription diphthongs
left to invent.
And because of all thus
I will continue to wonder
what bright flux
might come.


(I just want to thank everyone for this month of incredible poems! Every year I’m so happy and honored to be joining in here — and maybe this year especially, with all the daily — hourly — attempted whittlings-away of our souls by the forces of freakin’ evil. I wish you all beauty and success in whatever ways they sustain you. Personally, I will have some [hopefully] really good news tomorrow. Shine your light-thoughts my way, please?? THANK YOU ALL again and again.)