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?

Pine Needles

The fear and hope of a house.
There is an echo.
You could sit bare-ass in moonlight
In the deep forest.
Here’s a story
that’s not one:
A brother took his brother
into the deep of a forest
to sit on pine needles,
to scoff and wait for the moon.
He took him into the deep of a forest
with intent to kill him.
But they got separated
in a stupid sort of game
they agreed to play
in honor of wild animals,
which they were.
They both got laughing
and felt they had hooves,
and now they are there,
bees on their bones
or calling to each other forever,
depending if you believe
and if you love ghosts.
Calling out to each other
with the same degree
of fear and hope.
Like two tin-cans
on a rusty string.
Or maybe texting.
Although one still wants
to kill the other
before they find a way
to enjoy the shadows
as a permanent bed.

There is a heavy nothing
on a killer’s chest.

Because he did not get
to gnaw that bone.

There is an idealism
in that they are
wherever they are.
They’re like a jpeg of the moon.
We are unable to enjoy
anything of them
but the hope that both calls
will be answered at once.

If the voices found each other,
both brothers would be lost.

If the forest keeps them, though,
each in a separate pocket forever,
it is not so bad.

By

You walk by the open room
and a skeletal hand
shoots out of dark
grabs your too tropical, too parroty shirt
You hear the diamonds
shaking like all the ready girls
the journals of Paul Gaugin
The moon comes down the hallway
and panhandles company

It is a horny courtesy
to smile at you

There is even one young girl
dropped out of vampire school
combing her long Lana hair
will tell you there is no use
spinning the radio dial
in the family cemetery after midnight
She’s tried this for years
until her feet turned to golden hooves
She became a mother, wife and child

so now she hides from every world

The radio dial is spun again
by _______ (a drinker)
on a night so cold it crackles
like the static between the stars

Stephen Hawking is floating in that space
in the form of mathematical equations

Say “hi,” will you, as you float past him

The skeletal hand starts dancing
in its own way over the body
“The Mortel Bedde”

(hence, motel)

over the body which can no longer dance

(says the boy kept prisoner at the center of the bone palace)

Oh it is terrible to be seen
Oh it is terrible to be unseen

says the skeleton seeking a dance partner at the lame singles party

left out with the stars on the window sill

whose eternal complaint of the cold is desire home

like a t.v. dinner

 

 

Expired Link

This is a letter to the night. If you are not
the Night, please don’t be offended,
and feel free to repurpose this.
This poem is like a jar emptied out
to catch insects on a summer night,
but then not ever used. Left there
with the screw lid forever on, a yellow
scratched lid. The End.
(A smell of pickles will haunt it
longer than anyone you know
will be alive.)

Wait. I have something to tell the moss…

“I see something and I like something
and I copy it. I am like you in your green
cushions of breath. I copy it
the way you put down on earth breath
after breath, heartbeat after heartbeat.
We’re making a composition. There’s a reason
the stars stay up all day. They must have
blue insomnia.

“I still keep looking out the front door, checking
for the mail, even though there’s no longer
any house. ‘Get down off that table!’
the poem screams at me and claps
its hands angrily. My feet smack the carpet
and I stalk away in resentment, my tail
filled with poison now, ancient poison.

“This is an epistle written to the night,
the one that owes me money.”

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.

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
invisibility.
It is a lion
made of ice water.
There is white
laid down over
whiteness.
The beach
is a billion
minimalists
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
insidious
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
dissatisifed
roof gardens.