I looked up to a sort of flash:
moon with a fish in its mouth
who came out of dark clouds,
prowled, a surprised cat
padded silently across
the floor of sky,
look up rooftops,
briefly wondered
why humans
watch it,
and then:
of night.

The Moon Has a Lie in its Mouth

The moon
has a big mouth
and loses it
over time.
The cycle
of the amusement park
is the cycle
of many loves.
In winter,
the skeleton stands
out on the pier,
in the pier’s wind,
greyly before the sea
which is bluer then,
louder. The seagulls
left to organic food,
organic screams,
the natural murders
of the sea
that wash up,
shriek louder then,
more insistently.
They are as children
when they feel
a thoughtless leash.
That cacchination
comes of a
winter gull nihilism.
They are all
triggering each other
in a gunfight
of “who’s starving?”
What sounds laughter
at first
is actually hunger
poking a hole
in them, riddling sky.
All the summer people
have dissolved away
into air. The food
in their fat hands
cruel phantoms now.
The ghosts of french fries
and sugared donuts
are cruel, cruel.
When snow comes
one night,
there’s always a human ghost,
a single one,
down under the boardwalk
like a lonely figure
in a centuries old woodcut
staring at the white storm
taking the sand
before the blue storm
still roaring
waves ashore
through white
It is a lion
made of ice water.
There is white
laid down over
The beach
is a billion
talking at once.
This place
that is not made
to be heard
or seen.
Inhumanly strong.
Let’s just go.
The moon
could be anywhere
by now.
Big mouth.
Little mouth.
No different.
The moon is no politician.
If it wants
to destroy you,
it will just do it.
It will just
flood your lover
with the fluid dynamics
of moonlight.
There are textbooks
from the middle ages
you can read
about the process.
Your lover will dash
towards the ocean,
swim in the ice
of otherness,
a piece
in a game of pieces.
You will be
left holding
the erotic bag
like a gladiator’s wife,
like a chump,
reduced beef
at 3 a.m.
in the all-night supermarket
where crab legs
tell their autobiography
on beds of ice
to eighty-year-old widows
counting the calories
of death.
Oh, the naturals wonders
of the sea
pulled by the moon,
but let’s be honest
as the horrible people
on television,
the moon is only
after itself.
The moon
shapes the earth
through being
as vegetation,
old mapmakers
or the police.
It leaves
the horizon
of the ocean
feeling beaten.
It slips the earth
come morning.
Leaves it here
for another night,
for it has
a night
to attend
in Tokyo,
among all those
roof gardens.

The Moon’s Got Game

Be generous as the moon is with its light.
Give much for a while, then, maybe,
just a little, diminish, night by night.
Then disappear entirely for a while.
And reappear as just the teeniest sliver,
a Cheshire smile. This should turn your lover
to a lunatic, and keep your bedlife
wholly interesting.