Comets

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18

I.

There’s a white—blue nerve burning
across my night sky

I wish it hurt to watch

because then
I might stop.

II.

In my brain scan
is a white bullet

what will it plug
for my birthday?

Every year I ask for
less of the same

every year I ask for
a fiery surprise.

III.

What voice of dirty ice
is talking in my head?

I can’t watch the sky
without ringing Heaven.

My heart ticking as slowly
as poison
over its hissing dial tone.

Pick up, Heaven.
Please pick up.

It’s me.

IV.

I pray for
a virulent visitor

my body fluids rushing
to meet it

I’ll replicate
replicate

my celestial virus.

V.

When the Earth passed through
the vaporous tail of the comet

you were there

it rained forty days
and forty nights
on your uplifted face.

Someone was there
enjoying you

they passionately
took your photo

I’m looking at it now.

Thank God
for rain.

Thank God
for comets.

VI.

A comet processed
as a negative
is black.

Space is white
with melanoma spots
for stars.

Let me end in fire
on a night of low smog
bright on the horizon.

Will my lips stream
a black tail?

VII.

Cats and comets
are cousins.

With arching tails
and bright orbiting
mating swoops.

I used to sleep
hugging my cat.

I used to sleep
my nose buried
in her fur.

Now I wake up
seared happy
a bull’s-eye scorched
right through my chest.

VIII.

I’m finished
with generously swerving
into barren arms

and fostering out
my bacteria babies.

I don’t trust you
anymore
childless planets.

There’s no milk
in your irradiated
old tits.

There’s celibate cruelty
in your trap
of dusty craters
and thin gas gruel.

You only grow to hate
and abuse
my cheeky scum.

IX.

After sunset
above the horizon
near the hunched bright arch
of the Westgate Bridge

through binoculars
shivering

you looked looked looked.

But what difference
does the looking
of a finite terrestrial
neurally-aglow mammal
really make?

Let your own watery
chemistry’s delusions
boil
for a pulsing moment.

And believe
your squinting eyes
your warm breath
keep this fuzzy speck
blazing in and out
of the night clouds
going.

X.

Stop trying to remember
the swarming pong
off extinct broth.

Stop scuttling obsessively
through antique shellgrit.

Stand
in the comet’s
blue tickling tail.

Snag its fever.

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