Two poems by Nick D’Annunzio Jones

Good Morning, God

At breakfast, I launch a small pink quasar into a black hole. Minutes later,
receptors blocked, serotonin-flooded, my cosmos collapses; heaven-humming,
orbiting hypomania, bang – a star is born!

I also hear a comet talking: Side-effects include universal love, space dreams,
moonwalking; if the urge to produce a paean about astro-pharmacology develops, seek
help immediately, as this may be a sign of artistic delusion.

I ask the nurse for a bowl of quarks with a meteor shower.

Kerouac’s Mad

Sorry, Jack, we don’t pop flash like space spiders, fabulous or Roman. We yawn
(meds); say nothing (or the wrong thing) and want less – not more – of
everything (kind of zen, right, man?)

Yet we still live lives quite, quite, quite mad, often awwwwwwwesomely so.