I lummox my way
through another Tuesday ---
cerulean, Cistercian.
I count the days
until James's book drops.

*

Eureka me some poetry,
you Pindar of the turnstiles.

*

My confessor?
She's a gospel
in running shoes.

*

Hildegard of Bingen:
a twelfth-century version
of Christie T, poet and rockstar.

*

Summer is more bane than boon
to my Celtic integument. It vexes me
quite. I hide from its stridency
amid the copious shade
of a million liberal trees.

*

Thomas the belly, redux:
his coffee, his rosary,
his antic compendium
of wacky preachments.
Flaneur among the friars,
this talkative Doctor Dandy.

*

All my sins and songs
have been catalogued:
duly dismal, systematic.
All my brittle virtues,
shelved for posterity.