Take a look at the lawman
Beating up the wrong guy
Oh man, wonder if he’ll ever know
He’s in the best selling show
Life on Mars
of unknown origin perhaps influenced by dousing
and centurion diction related a black squirrel runs
for its life there may be a connection
of some sort industrious mind thinks
thinks dossen beat forcefully
or lower a sail in haste is recorded
from 1620s an obsolete connection
the smell of heat launching from a toaster oven
waffles exiting to strike punch
which is slang from middle dutch
dossen beat forcefully or a similar low german word
an obsolete contraction of unknown origin
though admitting the meaning may be derived
from a contraction of to extinguish a sail in haste
to thrust or plunge into water to separate word from meaning
the garbage piles up in the backyard of a neighbor
the black squirrel briefly returns i think
an obsolete contraction of some sort
between sky and slick
Reality takes shape in memory alone.
between only, slowly
Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.
between the fire
Not only is life mostly failure, but in one’s failure or pettiness or wrongness exists the living drama of the self.
between every once
The transaction is sealed; the matter is settled. I, God, have made my choice.
she didn’t mean to say
Plots are for dead people.
this ultraviolet correspondence
Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the Devil.
she never thought
We’re only certain (“certain only”?) about what we don’t understand.
i loved her then
What is your name? Never know. Hunched, picked off
a pair’a you—neither crow nor winch. A thing
god backlit in neon after blessing us with neon. And I
know what it means as a poet to carry this heavy basket—faint
mason, invisible stevedore, passage of time, neither good nor right.
I am fearful for firm and misunderstood things—
the spume, smiling inside the gargoyle, cultural forb—
they’re no different as carrion ghouls. Time
has done miserable things with light—he waves no
staff nor hauls no sack of turquoise shards. Quick!
He’s about to make a break for it. He’s about to windlass
Into the clouds, that one’s fancy. The crocodile climbs
many painted ladders. No weighted, pretty purple halos
ringing the eyes of these wordy wraiths—embrace
not knowing your name. I struggle to pull down the old crucifix.