Tom McCoy Fall 2014




another country

          -the frog in the fire
           knows desire
            a g

the rannies are playing skin music again

it sounds like a walrus shitting a tuba

i carry my soul in a paper sack
past the lunch room monitor
a grizzled oak of a woman
my knees are sweating

with the moon available only to the ablest sailors
and the price of canned hash skyrocketing
i have begun to despair

if aging is the art of graceful compromise
i am no henry clay

half as much is more than plenty
how much caviar can one eat?
let the geese keep their livers

but circling the drain
the air is sweet as cantaloupe
flowers shimmer like young trout
cactus graze in light rain

i am a soldier that has taken a hill
against great odds in another country
without knowing why
or i have forgotten to take out the garbage



          -bitten by a doggerel early on
           what’s your excuse?
             a g

waking to coarse kiss of flesh
draws spirit like a hand into
a pocket
by the snick of old rhymes
the polished rails of ease
is being knitted to the toll booth
of day

in the land of bad ideas
this body thing ranks up there
with flying watermelons
and part-time gravity
the body expects too much
a party in a drop of rain1375310851hte8e
a snowflake in the brain

we must stop conjugating
it can only lead to uglier children
and a shortage of beer
with faces of rain marching down
broken streets of evening
into a land of tents and mimes

on such a day it is hard to imagine
how long it took for christ
to become christ and not bill
when we have settled so effortlessly
for pizza and beer like tourists
waiting for old faithful to explain our lives


things with wings

            -it won’t get better
           till people get better-
             a g

enough air to inflate a fool

spirit scuffs leaves like a child

the body stops here
a frog gazing at the ocean
dreaming summer
things with wings
princess kisses

camped out in the brain
making up the difference
drinking time’s hard wine
a starship in a bottle

at the bus stop is a girl
bobbing like a pigeon
all spikey and spanky
then over the town
a balloon
a psalm sailing

i may be somewhat
out of socket

women cauterize as they go

the sky fills with birds1405684225rhoh8
gathering air

all things point
to an early harvest

we have as much god
as we can hold




tmpicTom McCoy is old and cranky. He believes humans should be limited to 500 words per day. Damn, wasted 21 already. He lives in Silver City, New Mexico.


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