Holy Sonnet 8

The Zika virus can’t be sent to hell.
You can’t put brain-eating algae on trial,
and the alligator that dragged that boy
into the lake won’t have to answer for
its sins — so why should I, just because
I’m a sentient being who can make
decisions of a sort, though I’m led by
nature just like anything else on earth?
But WTF do I know? I don’t know
shit about your plan, it’s written in wind
and waves and stars — so lobotomize me,
let me crawl away blasted by your blood,
a bug half-sprayed, almost dead, happy to
be squished and flushed at last, by you, for good.

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Holy Sonnet 7

The horn goes off before my final shot
reaches the goal, the whistle blows, the game
is lost, the other team pours onto the ice,
their gloves and sticks flying, and above them Death
(the announcer) laughs, already picking
apart my stats, pointing out weaknesses
in my game, tweeting about how I’ll be
forgotten as, all done now, I retire.
Yet as I unlace my skates and peel off
my jersey for the last time, the anger
melts away, the all-consuming pressure
leaves my bones, my soul relaxes, I break
into a grin, with nothing left but love
and laughter that wipes out each loss, every sin

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Holy Sonnet 5

I’m on every platform — look me up
@useless_sinnerfullofregret, where
you can find devotional messages
and images reflecting my endless pain.
It didn’t always used to be this way,
but my accounts were hacked and now I must
wipe everything clean, erase, delete
and reboot, even if my only hope
is that you rip out every wire by hand,
snatch bytes from thin air. Other people post
self-indulgent updates of vacations
in exotic locales, memories of
good times — I’m the friend you only follow
out of hate, whose grief is deep, joys hollow.

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Some Kind of Idea at the Coast

‘She sang beyond the genius of the sea.’
…the fuck’s that mean?
Tony, you seen this?
‘She sang beyond the genius of the sea…
The water never formed’ (the fuck?)
Look, all I know is this babe was singing
By the edge of the sea, and we were there.

Why was she singing? Who knows?
It’s not like they were passing out programs.
The tune was familiar somehow, but also not,
Like you could hum along and almost
Know the words, but to say that what she sang
Was somehow involved with the wind
And the waves — that’s nuts, OK?

It was just her singing. She was hot,
Sure, but the sea was out there doing
What it does, moving in the light
As the light moved — ‘Hey,’ said Tony,
‘You gotta light?’ and someone gave him one
So we could toke up while she sang.

If it was only her standing there singing
With the sea behind her, that would’ve been cool.
But there were all kinds of tourists and folks
On vacation, kids running around screaming
Their asses off while moms chased them,
Guys with massive pot-bellies wearing Speedos
And lots of bad hair and tattoos on display.
Yet even though we were getting hungry
And we wanted a burger and maybe some of that
Fancy ice cream they were selling,
Something about her voice made us
Stick around.

I don’t know if some of us thought
We could hit on her or what.
She just kept right on singing, as if
None of us were there, kind of like
The sea I guess, which kept moving and slamming
Against the rocks, she was making shit happen
You had to admit and we were conscious of
How we were following her around as she walked
In a stalker-ish kind of way
But by that point we couldn’t help it.

Yo, Tony, you remember how
when that babe finally stopped and we turned
around the sun had sort of slid down
Like a giant pizza off the edge of
The sky and you could see little squares
Of light in all the windows of the bars
And bungalows and we stood there
For a while, going like, ‘Woah’?

Man it was trippy. Tony
Said something kinda profound, although
You really had to be there.
And then we all just faded off
In the fading light towards other stuff.

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Holy Sonnet 3

Unfriend me, haters, crop me out of yr selfie
which is the world; leave me like a fuckboi
after a midnight booty call — look, then
swipe me away to online oblivion,
a bad date with a dad bod and no game.
Dismiss me in a vicious subtweet
I’ll never see — block, unfollow, flag me
as offensive, send me to the spam box…
For I do worse every day to him
who forwarded my soul (a corrupt file)
to the King. And though I suffer exile
virtually, desperate for a “like,”
his love stripped anonymity away
so his avatar was deleted for real.

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Holy Sonnet 2

Death, don’t talk trash — look at the scoreboard.
No matter how many threes you splash through
the net in my face, there is one Big Three
that wipes away all your boards, your points.
Any star with a killer crossover
dribble can put a defender to sleep,
and a whistle-happy ref can foul out
a player like that, giving iffy calls
to the home team, altering the game…
So why should I be afraid of your moves?
Then there are owners who’ll move a whole team,
killing off a city, all for a buck.
After the final horn we’ll all be saved–
win or lose, the game done — death, you’ll be waived.

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Holy Sonnet 1

Batter-up to my heart, triple-threat God
you who can hit harder than a slugger
on ‘roids staring down a pitcher who’s got
nothing left in his arm, a hanging curve
looped right over the plate, square up and smash
that tater so that I drop into the
glove of a kid halfway up the bleachers,
the last note of the national anthem still
ringing in his ears. From that, dented and
scuffed, let my heart rest for many years on
a mantle next to other forgotten stuff,
photos and knickknacks and coins, until
you pick me up and put me back in play,
a small white dot in all that green and blue

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