Sean Finney

Job Titles


This moment feels post-bathos,
wet-haired, nudged
to exhaustion
keep clapping, you'll arrange
the bridge, the tennis whites
scream lemonade. Ugly language
through the nose leads
me to keep track of names,
talk to everyone with money,
pay the price for blurb

Jazz musician

begin to unroll your neighbor's
the knots saturated by requests
to ignore evidence, history,
the chain of questions
that stretch from the sun
to your phobic kalidascope

Chinese Poet

   and an angry one
   that cascades from rock
   to ripe pocket of
   I will not call again
this grief has no pine
no bamboo, no thousand
grasses weeping with dew.
It's barefoot, a giant record,
in a cave.