THE LORD’s DAY

Written June 21, Ballard District, Seattle Washington

THE LORD’s DAY

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Sundays are for poetry,

sacred like the glinting

blade held high.

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Sundays are for solidity,

spectrum glass-scatter on

the concrete Page.

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Sundays are for mystery,

for found perfections,

carried always and cared for.

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Sundays, priestly Urim & Thummin,

a plate over the breast set

with chosen gemstones.

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Sundays are songbirds

calling the week into being.

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Sundays are the Lord’s Day,

placesettings for all mankind.

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“Come now and join the feast,

from the greatest to the least.”

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poems & pictures by JJ Brinski

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The Mad Space Poet is a saint. He writes the songs of the stars, tells of the places angels and aliens congregate. He is brimming with starrish rant, with awe, vinegar, and white-hot sentiment. From his observatory, the Mad Space Poet stares at the sun until fire pools in his eyes orb-full, gaze-blazen, then forthright fall the words.