(from the moon series)
Look up kid, things'll get better soon.
You'll build a house with a pretty woman
and those kids'll start sproutin. Before
you know it this body is gonna be worn down
to dust, sprinkled among the azaleas, drunk
and passed on like the whiskey of your youth,
in the memories of your children.
Those days'll pile up like papers.
Those cranes'll swing round and lift
you out of the muck (and who controls
the cranes? Well, God, the crane engineer.
The lifter of heavy objects and the placer
of obstacles. That God in a hard hat).
Buck up kid. Look at her big blue eyes.
Just think - someday it'll all work out.
And if it doesn't, at least you'll live
your life as if it would. Listen to them
wheelbarrows of foreign tongues squirming
and free of debt. Listen to them buckets
of rain in the midst of a mid life down pour.
And if it does work out,
well wouldn't that be grand. Ah, the great
envisioner, the magnificent seer, (that God
of crystal balls), watch love constructed
like the Pantheon, making nothing
into something, into a laster of ages.
Well they just don't make it that good
no more. These buildings ain't going to last
another era. Ain't going to last like the pyramids.
But if it does work out, let's sit and have a bowl
of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Encima
de los acontilados en el sur de España.
Let's watch the ocean liners snail across
the untamed Atlantic. Let's laugh at the poets'
need for conflict, the constant drive
to run life into the ground. Let's laugh
at the absurdity of normalcy. The credulous
sun and sky. Let's throw over thoughts
from the cliffs and dance wild in the light
of the moon, shedding the baggage
of adulthood with each drop of sweat.
And if the moons not out, well,
I guess we'll be fucked.
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