The Problem with the Moon

The poems start to sound the same,
all of them, the whining
and the mystical ones alike.
So you sit back on your bed
and stare at the same moon
in the same window,
wondering why it doesn’t have
somewhere better to be.
It’s trapped in that boring career
across the sky and poems.
You insult the moon to its face,
its big, fat, snail’s pace face,
but it doesn’t care.
It’s famous, you see.
And famous usually means
full of sameness. And hey,
anyway, did you ever notice
how it shrivels up until it’s just thumbing
its sharp nose at everyone,
and especially the poets
trapped in its dharma?

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The Goods

The cobwebs under the radiator         are beautiful
I could clean them           but then
I would be evil

Thank Goodness nobody’s hands can reach the stars
or they would be gone            perished
long ago

from that horrible       so-called human
Way

She is Nearly Ninety Now

Here: a room coming back on.   And another room flickering off.   Between them
a dark tennis court the dork vampires love.    Wet base.   A pygmyified marriage.
A mannequin trapped in the 1970s.     Hand on her ex-Texan armed waitress hip.

Chevrolet reflected in the shop glass bowed around retro chandeliers.   Frigid
in the window of the lighting supply store.      A foil backdrop like disco.
A pair of green stretchy pants.     That’s gotta be Elvis.    A dead tomato.

“Flies drop dead on sight of frost.”   You believe these things.    Like a car grill
collecting insects.     Attack of the Gullible Seagull.     Screaming lives
around the corner.    She is a giant squid among petite squid.    She hearkens

back to stray cats.  Collects blankets for some dogs going to heaven. Plays along.