Blood Moon

Restless trees turn on microphones
because it is autumn again.
The staghorn sumac mocks the deer.
The moon mocks everything,
the haunted mini-golf course
by the forgotten highway
where the deer stand,
the dead ice cream cubicle
with its ghosts of hands
that offered edible Platonic forms
across the counter,
the miniature iron clubs
left inside the ice cream stand
that dates to the sixties,
shaped like a cosmonaut’s pod
in a museum. Everything
is ancient and new tonight,
including you.  The deer stand
on the pretend grass,
before the fiberglass
mountain and other
miniatures our game made.
The moon turns its blood
eye like a dead carp
to the window where
a young girl stands
with so much pity
for the world, she tries
to drink the overage
of the viscous blood,
wrong moonlight
from its very eye.

Poem for October Shootings

Another autumn comes
to get the trees stoned,
to squeeze your hand
with thin and late light
a little on this street
that’s shaded by all these
ancient sycamores. You love
the scraggy sounds
those giant leaves
make when, dried-out,
they fall, and run like rats
down the street when wind
comes around that corner
that’s actually a dive bar.
The soul spittoon’s only windows
are narrow glass cinder blocks,
castle slits, so you’re spared
from seeing the dead/dying
who sit in there and watch
a small television
in the moist underworld,
who sometimes shoot each other
dead-for-real just outside the door
of this cave establishment,
because someone else just said
what they were already
thinking about themselves
in a cruelly honest way.